


A Pale Horse

by hello_imasalesman



Series: And, Behold, [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Cuddling to keep warm, Enemies to Lovers, Fist Fights, Holding Hands, M/M, Mild canon divergence, Neck Kissing, Neutral honor Arthur, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Takes place start of Chapter 3, chapter 2 spoilers, falling in mutual respect w each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: Not long after the gang arrives in Lemoyne, the Count dies in the field at Clemen’s Point. Dutch needs a new horse.





	1. trumpets, pipers, et al

Arthur’s heard before that a lot of horses mimic their owners. He can see it in some ways; whatever iteration of Nell Uncle was currently on won’t pull a lick if hitched, and the Count was wild apart from whenever Dutch was concerned. But it’s not a foolproof thesis, because Boudicca was a gentle, beautiful thing before she perished in Blackwater, and Baylock is surprisingly skittish, despite its size and job at carrying around the slimiest man Arthur Morgan’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.

“Who goes there?” Bill shouts as they make it just past the tree line surrounding Clemen’s Point; he’s standing, at least, not halfway napping against a log.

“It’s us.” Arthur shouts back, leading his horse as briskly as he can trot along the path, clearing the way for Dutch. Bill’s eyes go wide. They must look a sight: scuffed up themselves, not counting the mark on the Count’s breast, the way his flank heaves.

The Count is openly panting— it’s lips fluttering, snorting heavily, eyes mostly white and exceptionally wild. But he walks with Dutch saddled atop of him, exuding a controlled panic. Dutch jumps off of his horse clear of their makeshift pasture, grabbing the reins. The Count’s eyes momentarily roll back into its head as it stumbles.

Arthur hates to even entertain something as silly, but he knows that if Dutch were dying, he’d act the same way; stubborn and prideful. Arthur’s none of an expert much, on people, but he’s been around Dutch too long and he can’t imagine him being any way but.

“Grimshaw!” Dutch’s voice pitches high, his shout carrying itself clear through the camp. There’s a frantic pain in Dutch’s eyes as he scans the camp for her. “Where is that O’Driscoll boy?” Arthur can spot him from the top of his warhorse, hauling a bale of hay over his shoulder further out from the rest of the horses. Arthur dismounts as Dutch yells, “Get him over here!”

Arthur counts himself as a pretty okay hand with horses, having broken a few and ridden many more in his life. That didn’t make him a horse doctor or expert, by any means. Strauss kept the camp’s medicinal supplies at his wagon, and while Arthur had overheard him calling himself doctor before during jobs, any credentials towards that being true were dubious if they even existed. He certainly wouldn’t let Strauss treat him beyond handing over a bottle of tonic. The only other man that could possibly medicate would be Reverend Swanson. He was barely qualified to give last rites, but Arthur could possibly trust him to medicate a horse, if only because the morphine that man took would probably be enough to sedate a good-sized workhorse three times over—

“Mr. Van der Linde?” Kieran is covered in straw, pieces of it sticking out from underneath the bridge of his hat, the greasy tangles of his hair. There’s a harried timidness about him, rushing at the call of his name, shrinking as he gets closer. “Sir?” His voice ventures, wiping his gloved hands on the front of his pants as he approaches. The Count whinnies, legs buckling. Kieran’s eyes go wide, startling his arms to hover around the steed, as if somehow expecting to catch him when he falls, all thousand-plus pounds. “What happened?”

“Do we have time for questions like that?” Dutch barks, throwing the reins into Kieran’s face; his hands flail up to catch them, stumbling back. Behind him, Grimshaw has a three-quarter full bottle of tonic, having materialized at the sound of Dutch-created commotion. She clears his throat to catch his attention; Kieran makes some sort of desperate, confused noise, but grabs the bottle from her hands, his eyes switching rapidly between them, like something caught— Grimshaw, Dutch, the Count, and him. Dutch advances. “My steed has been shot, O’Driscoll, and if you do not fix him I will make sure that you’re also put out to pasture.”

Kieran squawks, unintelligible. “Yes’m—“

Arthur grunts. “Got it?”

Kieran’s eyes swivel. “Y-yeah, of course, I’ll do— I’ll do my best.”

Grimshaw barely keeps the roll out of her eyes, but her tone is surprisingly calm, like she’s the one trying to steady a dying stallion. “Come on, now,” She gives the horse, and Kieran, a wide berth, gently shooing Arthur and Dutch towards the camp proper. Arthur can see the girls watching curiously from the wash station from where he’s standing, interested over the ruckus. They turn to each other when they catch Arthur’s look, chatting in hushed tones. “You’re going to over-upset the horse at this rate.”

Dutch’s upper lip is stiff. “The Count is one in a million, Susan, you know that.“

She chances a glance at Arthur as she places her hands on Dutch’s shoulders; she doesn’t need to say anything. They’re both old hat at Dutch’s histrionics.

She does look undeniably annoyed, however, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary, an unsaid accusation of some guilt in her stare. Arthur just barely tilts his chin up in a nod, his face neutral. There’s no reason to try and placate Grimshaw with lies, tell her that the Count is fine and Dutch is overreacting. He respects her too much for that, and she doesn’t need it, besides.

Grimshaw’s hands leave Dutch’s shoulders as he voluntarily walks towards the center of camp, but she trails behind, as if ready to shoo him back should he choose to turn. Molly is hovering around the entrance of Dutch’s tent, trying not to look at Miss Grimshaw. She always looks so pursed, especially for a woman at least twenty years Susan’s younger. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.” Arthur calls after them, as a way of goodbye; Dutch just waves at him, the “alright, Arthur,” nearly lost as he pushes past Molly. The flaps of the tent close behind him; from the gap, Arthur can spy Dutch pacing in a tight circle, his expression pulled tight as Molly stomps into the tent behind him.

The Count whinnies. Arthur turns away, watching as Kieran steps back, and the Count sinks to its knees. “Oh, oh dear,” Kieran’s voice wobbles. He looks up at Arthur.

Arthur inhales, tilts the brim of his hat towards Kieran, and walks back to his tent.

He counts himself lucky to make it back to his tent without interruption, what with the girls having been so interested in the commotion. Usually, one of them will try to finagle an answer from him when dropping off dried laundry or fresh sheets. But, there’s a hush over the camp in Dutch’s wake, other than what sounds to be Uncle’s snoring from somewhere past Strauss’ wagon. Grimshaw must have spoken to them, or maybe, considering it was Dutch, they were keeping to themselves. Crouching, Arthur unlocks his pelt covered chest; he puts away his bandolier, and his off-hand pistol and holster, laying them all carefully inside.

He can hear someone approaching behind him. Hoping they continue past his tent is a lost cause. Arthur peels his handkerchief from his neck, wiping his hands with the sweat-sticky cloth. Surely, whoever is there will see that he’s not in the mood, and take their leave.

Hosea clears his throat. He doesn’t need to turn to recognize the rattle of his lungs. Arthur looks over his shoulder.

“What happened?”

Arthur grunts, turning back to close his chest. “Buncha Lemoyne Raiders.” He pushes himself to standing with a sigh. Now, he wishes it had been one of the girls to first approach. Hosea looks warily concerned, though mostly, he looks tired standing there. Something akin to guilt worms its way into a corner of Arthur’s chest. “My fault.”

“Your fault?” Hosea asks flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, not directly.” Arthur holds his handkerchief limply in his hands, “Got in a bit of a brawl with a pair of them up at the saloon, with Lenny—“

“Didn’t something like this happen with you two in Valentine? I thought we already talked about this.” Hosea asks, shaking his head.

Arthur rubs at his jaw. “Well, this were a little different. Didn’t even get a chance to drink.” Arthur’s never been this south before. It’s his explanation, but it feels like a poor excuse, something he should have known better either way. The only reason he hadn’t killed those no-good bastards was because the gang was supposed to be lying low. It had only been a week since they had left Valentine with fire under their horses’ hooves and a bullet in Strauss’ leg.

Hosea gets the hint. He huffs out a hum of understanding, his eyes shifting out towards the edge of camp, where the patrols were walking. If Bill was out at the eastern-most path into Clemen’s Point, then Lenny was stationed at the northern one. “I see. Just don’t let it happen again, will you?” He turns his eye to Arthur, “I’m serious.”

“Twice is plenty.” Arthur agrees, chagrined. “Besides, they may not have recognized me. But, well...”

The outcome, whether they had been jumped because of Arthur or not, was the same. They weren’t gunning for Dutch’s horse, at least, Arthur doesn’t think anyone would be so lowdown as to do that. But nobody’s ever safe in a gunfight, especially when fighting the kind of backwater folk too blind off moonshine to shoot straight. “Well...” Hosea subtly turns to glance out at the pasture and Arthur does, as well, his arms crossing over his chest; Grimshaw has wandered back towards Kieran, though he can’t hear or see properly at this angle to discern what for. Maybe to threaten him, or console.

“How’s Dutch taking it?” Hosea speaks under his breath, tilting his head towards them.

“As well as you can imagine.” Arthur nods.

“Oh, Arthur,” Hosea flashes a smile, his eyebrows rising high before his face falls flat again. Already, Arthur can hear the usual background chatter resuming in camp, though most of it seems to be Molly’s muffled shouting from within Dutch’s drawn tent. “I can imagine a whole lot.”

Arthur covers his chuckle with another rub to his chin, rocking on the back of his heels. Hosea gives his shoulder a fond pat before he leaves. Dutch’s foul moods have started to push at Molly; or, maybe, she had finally left that school-girl phase of infatuation and his honeyed words weren’t keeping her attention. Grimshaw wouldn’t touch her with a thirty foot pole, but Arthur hopes she’ll eventually migrate into the girls group and find some camaraderie, along with some measure of work. If not, he’s not sure how long for their world she’ll end up being. Wouldn’t surprise him none if she skipped out before they gathered enough money to head back out west. Being so relatively close to a major port, she’d be stupid not to.

With Hosea gone, Arthur resumes getting settled back into camp. He’s grateful that the washing basin seems to have been topped off in his absence; he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, and uses his handkerchief to wipe his face and neck clean, careful not to let the water dribble down past his collar. He tries not to stare too long at himself in the mirror, past noticing he’s in need of a shave, before wringing out the well-used cloth and draping it over the side of his barrel vanity.

Arthur glances up from the mirror just in time to see Grimshaw walking stiffly past his tent. He glances back towards the pasture. The horses are grazing calm and unaware, tails flicking away the flies that gathered near the edge of the lake. He should probably listen to Grimshaw; he knows his presence will just make Kieran nervous, or maybe the horse, as well. And yet—

Arthur lights himself a cigarette before he wanders back over to the pasture.

The Count is lying on the ground, it’s lips flaring as it exhales big, heaving puffs of air. Sitting on the ground cross-legged, Kieran’s eyes flit up only briefly to Arthur, but even the slight break in attention seems to be felt by the Count; the albino horse whinnies, soft and broken, and Kieran’s soft humming turns to a firmer hush, stroking a flat hand over its heaving flank.

If they were still at Horsehoe Overlook, they could have brought him to the stables in Valentine. But there’s nothing close in Rhodes, nobody with that kind of knowledge, unless they went further South. Maybe Dutch knew it was a fool’s errand. Even Arthur knows the horse is not going to be getting back up again, even with tonic poured down its throat, over its wounds; a wickedly accurate piece of buckshot shrapnel to the chest, oozing blood in a quiet, steady trickle that was more foreboding than if it were to gush. And Arthur had expected it to gush, but he knows it’s probably doing that on the inside. He had seen men die before, blood pouring out of their mouths from down inside, as if a geyser unleashed deep from a spring. It had never seemed a pleasant death, though few he’s seen were.

“Kieran.” Arthur stands a few feet off. Doesn’t want to crowd.

“Mister Morgan,” Kieran replies, in greeting. He glances over at Arthur again, through a curtain of his hair, and then back to the horse. 

Arthur falls silent. He smokes a little longer. Other than the moment of alarm, the Count doesn’t seem to notice him. Arthur clears his throat. “Thought I’d offer my help.”

“So did Ms. Grimshaw. There ain’t really much...” Kieran’s head is tilted down, his face obscured by the wide brim of his hat. “I tried—“ Kieran self-corrects, “I’m trying,” Arthur can see the trembling of Kieran’s hand as he strokes the Count. There’s dried blood on his gloves that occasionally flakes off like rust against the Count’s coat. “Honest. You don’t have to watch over me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, boy.” Arthur grunts, but adds, “I’m not here to babysit.”

The Count’s been with them for years. He felt it when his own had died, months prior; maybe _cry_ was an awfully strong word, but he remembers the way his chest had tightened seeing his sweet Boudicca’s flank rise one last time and then still, panic in her eyes.

Kieran hesitates. “Then...?” He’s sure Kieran has awful luck, but some of that luck had to account for how curious he seemed. Better to let the subject drop, especially given how Arthur usually tried to ruffle him.

But, he’s feeling softer than he should, watching the horse’s big chest take shallower and shallower breaths. “Think someone ought to see him off.” Arthur admits. Kieran breathes deep, nods.

Most horses go like that, with panic. It feels strange, to watch the horses’ last moments. Dutch should be here, but when Arthur glances over towards his tent, there’s no movement there, though he can still hear Molly’s voice, indecipherable, talking over the sounds of the lake and camp.

So he stays, silent, sitting on a nearby stump, watching the horse go, his cigarette slowly burning down towards his fingers. He almost thinks to offer Kieran one, when he reaches for his second, but the boy is completely focused on the horse, so he leaves him to it. By the middle of the second, the Count’s panicked, shallow breaths slow, and then stop.

It feels like its spirit of panic is chased straight out from its corpse right up into Kieran. He’s got the eyes of a spooked horse himself, pinprick pupils lost in a sea of searing white. Arthur watches him stand, slow, though his body is trembling so minutely he looks like he’s vibrating. He turns left, then right, and when he spins and sees Arthur behind him, as if suddenly realizing he’s still been sitting there the whole time, he gasps and flinches back.

“Don’t kill me!” His arms go up, to cover his face. Arthur almost laughs; he wants to, though something in him twinges that keeps him from doing so.

“I ain’t gonna kill you.”

“If you won’t...” Kieran cowers, “Dutch will.”

Arthur sighs. “Dutch’s got a lot on his mind. He ain’t mean it. Might yell a little.” He shrugs, licking his thumb briefly to put out the last quarter of his cigarette before it burns out entirely. He pockets the stub in his vest. “But you’re not the one who shot that horse.”

“No!” His first reaction is reflexive, as if Arthur had actually meant it, was trying to subtly say he had, indeed, shot that horse, and not some Lemoyne Raider with poor aim. He’s shivering something awful, though it hasn’t been cold in camp for some time. Horseshoe Overlook had been pleasant with a chill wind during the day and cold at night, but nothing a fire and a nice quilt couldn’t sort out. Clemens Point was not only hot, but humid, and even at night he sweats sitting around the fire for too long. “No, no. No, I, uh...” His voice cracks, “I didn’t shoot the horse. But I— he’s had this horse for a long time, hasn’t he?”

Arthur clears his throat. “Years.”

Kieran groans, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “He’s gonna kill me.”

Arthur shakes his head, “He’s not gonna kill you—“ He reaches for Kieran, to grab his shoulder, a forearm, but the man skitters back before Arthur’s fingers can even connect. His hand falls to his side. “He’s not.” Kieran is fixing him with those horse-wild eyes again. Arthur holds his hands out, passive. “He’s not.”

Kieran’s gaze shifts. “I don’t—“

“Look,” Arthur regrets it even as the words leave his lips, “I’ll be the one to tell him. He’ll take it a lot more kindly comin’ from me, than you.”

Kieran’s confusion is so plain on his face Arthur wants to tell him, at once, that he didn’t mean it. He doesn’t want this man thinking he’s soft. Kieran himself is awfully soft, squirms and cries when pinned, but those type often bite when anything more vulnerable than knuckles are turned towards them, the way abused animals often do.

“You’d do that?” There’s a tiny pause. “For me?”

Arthur feels his throat clutch in a strange way. He stands suddenly, ignoring the flinch in Kieran’s eyes as he does so. “Course, O’Driscoll.” Arthur turns towards camp as he speaks, “If Dutch kills you, who’s going to keep after my horse?”

Kieran doesn’t reply to Arthur’s receding back. He’s smarter than he gives him credit.

Through the sliver of his tent, Arthur meets Dutch’s eyes. He stops in place, mid-pace, and Arthur can see him breathe in by the way his shoulders raise, and his chest broadens. Dutch knows what he’s going to say. There had never been a chance that Arthur would be coming to him with anything but bad news. When he opens the flap of the tent, he can see Molly sitting at the furthest end of the bed, arms crossed over her ample chest, staring out towards the lake.

Though, Dutch had always been— optimistic doesn’t sound right. Some variation of that. Prideful of his own fate?

“He’s gone, Dutch.”

Dutch heaves a sigh. Maybe a part of him had hoped that horse would somehow pull through. What a world that would be, if miracles like that could happen.

“Alright, Arthur.” Dutch dismisses him, rubbing at his mouth with his hand. Arthur knows the man grieves in solitude. Spent weeks in his tent after Annabelle died, with only Hosea as his tether to the world at large. Molly doesn’t turn around once, straight-backed and silent, not even as Arthur leaves the tent. “Thank you for telling me.”

He counts in his head the amount of time it takes between walking from Dutch’s tent to his own before someone approaches him, though he’s more surprised for it to be Kieran lurking at the edges instead of Hosea or a curious Tilly. He barely has the time to grab his heavy work gloves from his trunk before he skitters over.

“Arthur?”

Arthur sighs. When he makes eye contact with Kieran, he wilts. “Yeah?”

“How’d he take it?” He hovers around the invisible perimeter of his tent, just on the edge, as if held back by something. He has his hat in his hands, clutched against his chest. 

“Fine. All things considered.” Arthur grumbles, “He knows it’s not your fault.”

“I tried my best.” Kieran agrees. “I’ve worked with horses all my life, and—“ His voice lowers, “I don’t know if anyone could have saved him.”

“No doubt.” 

“I’d never kill a horse on purpose.” Kieran insists, “Not right. I tried, believe me, Mr. Morgan, but a wound like that, well— and, well, of course— I’d never do anything like that, to hurt the gang or Mr. Van der Linde like so.”

Arthur wants to keep the facade up as unbelieving muscle. It would do better for all of them if Kieran did not get too comfortable too fast. Some of them, the girls especially, have softened so quickly towards him, as if almost forgetting a month before he had been riding with the O’Driscolls, killing with the O’Driscolls. 

“I know. Dutch knows.” Is all he says. Arthur rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Come on. You’ll be helping us.”

Kieran chews at his cracked lips as he nods. They will need to dig a grave. They don’t want to attract animals or pestilence just leaving it out to rot. He’s heard that this far south, they get those big cats like they do in the mountains north and west, but they’re blacker than the night so they’re twice as hard to spot before they rip a man to shreds. That might just be superstition, though. Arthur wrangles Lenny and Marston to help with digging, finding a patch of loamy soil just out at the edge of the wood clearing, facing the water.

As they grab shovels from the wagons, Arthur can just see the top of Dutch’s black hat beyond the shoulders of the horses. He’s gone by the time they hitch two of the bigger horses to drag the Count by his ankles out to the shallow grave, and he doesn’t leave his tent for the rest of the night, his hunched form shadowed on the drawn flaps.

—

 

Dutch beckons him over the next day, barely after Arthur had finished pouring himself his first cup of morning coffee. He still feels a little bleary, and consequently, self-admittedly— a little ill-tempered, though it melts away as soon as Dutch lights a cigarette on the edge of Flat Iron and offers it to him. Arthur takes it, watching as Dutch lights himself another with the same match, flicking it out into the lake before the flame reaches his fingertips. It’s a small gesture, but a kindness, nevertheless.

Dutch crosses his arms, staring off over the water. His sleeves are rolled down, though the heat is already starting to pick up as the sun creeps higher. “Have you seen what they’re trying to sell a horse for nowadays, outside of Rhodes?” He glances at Arthur, “Three-hundred for an Appaloosa.”

Arthur whistles low.

“I need a new horse, Arthur.” Dutch continues, “I can’t replace the Count. Not a beast that magnificent, not truly. But, we can try and find something in the meantime.”

“Sure.” Arthur grumbles into his mug. 

“We can’t pay that, of course.” Dutch concedes, shaking his head. “That’s low-down thievery, is what it is, especially for an animal like that. You can’t put a price on the epitome of freedom.”

Arthur takes a long sip of his coffee. “So,” He ventures, slow, “We steal it.”

“Logical conclusion, right?” But it’s not, judging by his tone, the way Dutch’s lip quirks at the corner. “We can’t make that sort of trouble, Arthur.” Dutch’s right, of course; they can’t make trouble, especially after they’ve just gotten free from Cromwell.Though by himself, Arthur is sure he can go in and out without any noise. “And, besides, an Appaloosa?”

An Appaloosa, in Arthur’s opinion, is a fine enough horse. Not the fastest, but better than some farm horse. “Well, what then?” He has a war horse, himself. Not the fastest by a mile, but he’s hands taller than most non-draft horses and never seems to tire. He should have expected as much from Dutch. The man with an albino horse would never settle for anything less than spectacular, even in these times.

“I want something similar to the Count.” As he speaks, Arthur can feel it, that prickling of doubt creeping up as Dutch’s fancies veer dangerously high. “Fast, lean, brave. A real wild beauty.”

“The Count was a special horse.” Arthur says, hesitation cloaked in praise.

“Oh, he was, he was. One in a million.” He turns, pats Arthur’s arm, and gives it a squeeze that Arthur feels through his jacket. “But with you on the job, it won’t take long.”

Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette. All that’s left of his coffee is the dregs, and he throws the butt of his cigarette down towards the lake’s edge, along with flinging out his mug, well away from Dutch and his clothes. “When do you want to set off?”

Dutch doesn’t skip a beat. “Well, I was thinking that you and one other would go on down to Rhodes, maybe ask around.” He concludes, looking off over the lake. Arthur bites back the sigh that’s threatening to spill from his clenched jaw. He would have thought Dutch would want to come, considering how picky he’s always been in his choice of mount. “Maybe take John, or Micah.“

“I’ll get someone to come with me.” Arthur steels his face, tries to say it in a way that Dutch can’t parse how much he hates the idea of either of them accompanying him. Sometimes, he thinks Dutch presses harder to pair Arthur with those he doesn’t work well with, a father trying to force his children to get along via constant proximity. “We’ll head out after lunch, pack when the sun isn’t too high.”

“Good man. I can still count on you, Arthur.”

Arthur leaves Dutch on the lake’s edge. Marston would complain, he knows that much, and after the sheep in Valentine he’s not surely keen on any leads he could dig up, anyway. And he’s sure Micah would disagree with any choice Arthur would make, on account of him pretending that he was some scholar of Dutch and all of his whims, as of late. He can’t see him being anything but oppositional. He doesn’t want a liability.

But then, who? He can’t take Lenny. Charles, maybe, but Pearson has been keeping him busy hunting for the camp, especially since they left some of the larder behind at the camp in Horseshoe Overlook.

Arthur pauses by the chuckwagon fire, where the pot of coffee sits beneath the empty spit. There’s about half of the pot left, and he pours himself a cup, steam drifting out over the rim.

“Mister Morgan.” Kieran greets him with a slight nod as he passes from behind, carrying a bucket of water in his arms. The sun’s not high enough yet for a hat, but there’s a light sheen to Kieran’s forehead from exertion, having no doubt been choring since sunrise. He dumps the entirety of the bucket in the wash basin, and sets it down behind the wagon, next to Uncle’s prone and snoring form. He pauses to tip his hat at Arthur, chancing a small half-smile as he does so.

Arthur inhales, slowly dawning: “Kieran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @hello-imasalesman  
> Come yell with me about our favorite horse girl, Kieran Duffy. Comments and crits are always much loved and appreciated!


	2. measured hundredweight, penny pound

Arthur gets to packing as soon as possible. If he wants to leave before high noon, then he has to get his tent together and the essentials on his horse, before it grows too hot to do much else. His warhorse is idly grazing at pasture, and Arthur is quick to tack him up. They are barely a step past Strauss’ wagon when he hears her: “Arthur Morgan,” Grimshaw’s voice floats in from the far edge of camp, nigh-omnipresent, “Remove that horse this instant!”

“It’ll just be a moment.” Arthur calls back, still leading his horse forward, though his warhorse’s ears have gone flat against his head.

He can see her over his shoulder, standing just at the edge of the chuckwagon camp fire, her hands on her hips. Pearson has to step around her to hang the stew up on the spit. “And we’ll be here, suffering from the smell of that thing for the week you’re gone.” 

“I’ll only be a moment.” Arthur promises, finitely, throwing the lead over the hitching post that butted up against the edge of his tent. Normally, he would tie it, but the longer he chances Grimshaw’s wrath, the less of a chance he has loading his horse with the heavier essentials of a long trip. As soon as he drops the lead, his warhorse ducks his head to graze at the untouched grass along his tent.

“If that horse messes, I’m making you clean it yourself!”

Arthur waves a hand at her. He knows she means well, and though he always appreciates when her strict rules are enforced on some of the younger, rowdier gang members, he finds it grates when the rules are applied to him. Not that he expects preferential treatment— but a blind eye, on occasion, would not be the worst.

“Mr. Morgan—“

His back turned, Arthur is all too aware of the sound of Grimshaw approaching. She moves faster when annoyed. He hurries to gather his his usual outing supplies in his arms. He takes his bedroll, rolled tight, and straps that to the rear of his horse, “Alright, alright...” Arthur huffs, trying not to let his amusement bleed into his words. “Feels like you’re gonna come over and hit me over the head.”

She has her arms crossed over her chest, and it always makes her look so stern; she’s cuffed him before, always rightly. Susan Grimshaw feared no man or beast, apart from rattlesnakes.

“I ought to, the way you’re parading that thing in here.” Grimshaw stands just on the invisible perimeter of his space, though she’s toeing the line and giving his horse a suspiciously wide berth. “How’d you feel if that thing messed near someone’s tent?”

“Depends on whose tent it is.”

She bites at the corner of her lip to control her smile, but only for a moment, settling back on something that was still a shade too amused for what her voice was trying to convey. “Hah! Alright, alright.” Susan’s lips twinge under threat of laughter. “Come on, now.”

“In fact,” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, leaning in close, “I’ll march this nice horse right over by Micah’s bedroll right now, you wouldn’t even have to pay me.”

“Arthur Morgan!” Grimshaw guffaws, one of those rare, unguarded squawks that she tries to wrestle down as soon as it breaks free; it transforms her, momentarily, to something younger, before there were any girls to mind. Arthur finds himself laughing in return, even as Grimshaw reaches over to swat him on the arm. “Listen, you-! Bring him back to the field, alright?”

“Alright, alright.” His warhorse seems to have no opinion of this, either way, more concerned with eating every blade of grass within his lips’ reach. When Arthur looks back at Susan, her face has been mostly trained back to stoic.

“And I’ll have Mary-Beth run you out a clean set of clothes so you don’t have to run back and forth as much.” She offers, the closest thing to a compromise she can bear: “Understood?”

Arthur chuckles, ducking his head. “Of course, Ms.Grimshaw.”

She gives him a small smile, sparing his horse one last glance before she turns away. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Grimshaw leaves him to tie what’s in his hands down to his horse. He makes short work of hooking his lantern to the saddle and sliding the rolled tarpaulin and sugans behind the bedroll. “Alright,” His warhorse protests as he takes the lead, standing firm. “C’mon, boy, lets get back to pasture.”

His warhorse gives one more effort of resistance, chomping eagerly at the long blades around the legs of his tent table before Arthur can tug him away. He leads him out of the camp firstly, around Strauss at his table, before cutting across the scout camp towards the pasture.

It’s rare for Bill Williamson to be up before the lunch pot, unless he was on the schedule for guard duty, but for some reason he’s sitting round the scout camp fire all by himself. Arthur tries to ignore Bill’s stare as he watches him pass. Arthur would not consider himself as attentive as, say, Charles or Hosea— but Bill is so unwieldy. Perched on a small log before the crackling fire, he turns not only his head but his body to track Arthur as he leads his horse out of camp.

“Packin’ for a trip?” Bill calls, just shy of Arthur being out of earshot.

“Something like that.” Arthur shouts back, tightening the grip on his reigns. He doesn’t slow his step, leading his horse up the hill towards the pasture and out of the boundaries of the camp. Disappointingly, Bill is still following him with his beady stare as he makes his way back, glaring out at him from under the brim of his ten-gallon hat.

“And?”

Arthur stops in front of the fire, and heaves out a sigh, hooking his thumbs into the loops of his work pants. It takes him a moment— to think of what to say, to decide if it’s really worth even indulging Bill.

“Dutch needs a new horse,” is what he settles on.

“‘Cause of you and him going out, getting the Count shot and all.”

“Sure.”

Bill palms a silver flask half-openly, taking small, quick sips from it noisily: “You going alone?”

“Why?” Arthur asks, staring hard. “You wanna come along?”

Bill’s face scrunches up into something sour. “No.”

“You’re awful curious.”

“Jesus, Morgan,” Bill turns his head, sniffs hard and spits something thick from the back of his throat to the ground, “just trying to make conversation.”

“Sure.” Arthur shakes his head. He’s not in the mood for a fight with Bill Williamson, especially because he’s been sipping for who-knows how long on that canteen.He’s already half-turning his body away from him. Arthur starts to inch away from the scout fire, and Bill, back towards his tent, though not too much to be considered a rush. “Well, I need to pack. Trying to get out with Kieran ‘fore the sun gets too high.”

“The _O’Driscoll_?” Bill barks, too loudly. Bill swivels, scanning the camp. Subtle as a gunshot. “Why?”

“I don’t need muscle. I need someone who knows horses.” Arthur shrugs, following Bill’s glare. Kieran is holding a bucket of water in each wobbling arm, the water slopping out over the edges and onto his shoulders. He must have heard his name mentioned, and though he’s looking over warily from beneath his plantation hat, he’s smart not to outright ask if he had been called. No need to pull unwanted attention towards himself. Then again, he doesn’t know yet that Arthur’s going to be taking him out on his first job.

Bill notices him, too. He chortles, tersely, between his clenched teeth. “True enough.”

Arthur’s been noticing that, too, since Horseshoe, Bill’s uneasy energy that he relentlessly focuses on Kieran whenever he’s in reach. Arthur can’t put his finger on what it is exactly. Javier doesn’t like Kieran, either, nor Mrs. Adler, but that usually results in burdening him with extra duties in the pasture, keeping him at arm’s length, maybe a good hazing or half-hearted threats.

Arthur pulls away his stare from Bill. Bill doesn’t do that. He’ll mock-charge at him to make him flinch one moment and try and force him to drink the next. Kieran ducks away, behind a wagon, and when he emerges he’s two water pails lighter, hurrying his pace towards them.

“O’Driscoll.”

“Sir?” Kieran wipes his work gloves off on the front of his pants, eyeing up Arthur, than Bill. “Everything alright...?”

“Come on. We’re getting Dutch a horse. Grab what you need and saddle up.”

“I—“ Kieran croaks, hanging just short of an outburst of questions. This has been the opposite of what he had been expecting, Arthur can tell, from the way he stops in his tracks like he’s been struck dumb. “I— ah.” He shakes his head, back and forth, “What will I need?”

“Going North.” Arthur says, simply, though he does pause. If he’s not mistaken, Kieran’s colder weather clothing had to be thrown out after they returned from Sixpoint Cabin. The girls couldn’t salvage a week of the stable in Colter, and two weeks tied to a tree on the outskirts of Horseshoe Overlook. “Ask Ms. Grimshaw if we have any extra blankets, coats. Think we might still have some of Davey’s old things, and he was about your size.”

Almost. Skinnier, Arthur can tell, even in his loose-fitting clothes, but just as tall, even if he doesn’t act it. Kieran nods, averting his gaze. “Alright, I sure will.”

“How come you need a dead man’s things, O’Driscoll?” Bill’s glaring at the side of Kieran’s head so hard that it must be burning the back of his skull.

“Sorry?“

Arthur shifts his weight, angles himself closer to Kieran.

“You really shit yourself when I nearly snipped off your balls on that tree?”

Kieran’s face colors, a small sputter escaping him. He lifts a hand, as if to respond, but instead grimaces as he stomps away without saying a word, towards the girls’ wagon.

“Aw, come on,” Bill shouts, cupping his palm around his mouth. “I was just messin’ with you!”

“‘Messin’?” Arthur asks.

Bill turns, “What?” There’s no recognition on his face. Arthur shakes his head. Bill watches Kieran’s receding back, his face turning guarded and bitter. “What’s wrong with him?“

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with me!”

“Never mind.” Arthur sighs heavily, “Leave that boy be.”

“Oh, what?” Bill shouts louder than necessary, turning with a sudden anger. “He’s one of us now?”

“I ain’t got time for this.” Arthur mutters underneath his breath, turning away from Bill, the last of his patience worn too thin. Bill shouts something at his back that Arthur wholly ignores. He doesn’t need to be distracted; he needs to gather the rest of his supplies.He already has his own supply of tonics and cures, a basic first aid kit, but he does pick up some extra ammo from the back of his wagon.

Arthur’s formulating a sort of plan as he straps a few throwing knives underneath his pant leg. He’s not quite sure why Dutch gave him this task. Arthur knows he’s not the quick-witted, plan-formulating sort, not like Dutch himself, or Hosea. He was much better at following orders when it came to anything more delicate than cracking skulls; he knows where his strengths lie, and he has no shame in that, never has. But he’s not a complete idiot, even if Dutch’s trust in him seems to wane more than wax.

He finds Kieran in the field, loitering with an anxious energy around the edge of the pasture with Branwen, a cloth bundle wrapped with twine underneath his arm. “Ran into, uh, Mary-Beth,” Kieran warbles, “And she had your clothes to give to you, but I just offered to take them off her hands so she wouldn’t have to go walking all the way out...”

Kieran offers the neatly folded clothes with a weak wrist, as if expecting beratement for grabbing his clothes, or some comment on what Bill had said. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch when Arthur silently takes the clothing from his arms, turning to his horse. He bundles his winter coat in with his tent, and tucks the extra pairs of socks and underthings into a saddlebag.

“Let’s go.”

They mount their horses and lead them out in a trot through the wooded path, past Lenny’s guard post, who waves as they pass, past the freshly turned soil of the Count’s grave. Once they hit the open road, Arthur nudges his horse into a faster trot, but nothing too strenuous; there was no reason to get the horses exhausted, not when they have far to go. To his credit, Kieran silently follows behind, keeping pace. He doesn’t even speak until Arthur slows his horse with a _steady, boy_ , as the Rhodes’ chapel steeple peaks just over the horizon.

“I thought we was going north?”

“Need some supplies first. Wouldn’t hurt to ask around about horses neither, but...“ Arthur glances at Kieran, watching as he moves Branwen into walking side-by-side on the path with him. “They won’t have any decent horses, not this far south, I’m almost sure of it.” There were small, local ranches around, but nothing that dealt with anything more exotic than a Tennessee Walker. And if Dutch thought an Appaloosa was beneath him, he wasn’t going to take Arthur bringing him back some common nag very lightly.

Kieran hesitates, “What about the city? Isn’t that close, Saint Denis?” He has a drawl when he says it, practically sandy knee, though Arthur knows he doesn’t sound too much nicer when he says it, either. “They’re supposed to have everything there.”

“I don’t know. Never been.”

“Me neither.” Kieran admits.

“If they do have horses, it’ll be at a price and a half, if that. Besides, in a city of that size, it’s probably crawling with Pinkertons.” Arthur shakes his head. He’s heard of Saint Denis, of course. A city supposedly ten times the size of Blackwater, which had felt dizzyingly large at times while they were there. A city with a street car was no place to find a horse, not a good one.

Their conversation peters out as the road grows dusty under their hooves. Rhodes is a relatively sleepy town— or, maybe, it’s just the sun overhead that’s driven everyone indoors and away from the humid heat that’s clinging thick to Arthur’s brow. He’s already sweating under his hat. There’s only a few folks sitting around the bell in the circle, and they look to be the old, washed-up type of drunk that would be out no matter the weather, slumped over on benches and snoring under their hats.

Arthur hitches his warhorse by the general store; Kieran stays outside. The owner of the store, a balding man with a thick mustache, is surly enough to keep Arthur’s time in there short. He buys the barest of necessities, especially since most of the breads and cheeses look suspiciously sweaty underneath their cloches, flies bumping futilely against the glass. The shopkeep’s no help either when it comes to horses, either. In the immediate area, they have farm horses, owned by local people and a family called the Grays. He recommends going down to Saint Denis, stretching the name of the city out too-long, like he’s trying to show off; and, outside of the city the only others who breed horses of any caliber is on a nearby plantation owned by the Braithwaite family. And they’re expensive, and cousin-fuckers, both the people and the horses, from what Arthur can gather, which helps him none.

“Well?” Kieran asks, his voice nearly drowned out by the clattering of the bell as Arthur shuts the door closed behind him.

Kieran eyes Arthur as he approaches Branwen; when he reaches for his saddlebags, he flinches, as if to stop him, but holds back as Arthur tucks the canned goods in his arms inside. “Dead-end down here. Like I said, we’re going to have to go north. We head on up to Emerald Station, see if they have anything decent at the ranch.”

“To...” Kieran looks around, lowering his voice and leaning over. “To buy?”

Unhitching his horse, Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Arthur grunts as he steps into his stirrup and hauls himself up. He can’t believe, out of all the O’Driscolls he could have hogtied face down in the snow, it had to be the only one who balked at theft and violence. “Know someone to ask, either way.”

Seamus, the foreman over at Emerald ranch, may know something about acquiring a new horse, ill-gotten or not. He’s been a valuable partner in selling off the occasional stagecoach or questionably acquired pieces of jewelry. Even bought the gold teeth he had pulled straight from a dead O’Driscoll’s mouth without batting an eye, which made him alright enough in Arthur’s book.

Arthur leads the way out of Rhodes, though this time, Kieran follows side-by-side. “I just—“ Kieran scratches at the side of his neck, hesitating, “Going north is fine, and all, but how far north? I just don’t like the idea, being up there in O’Driscoll territory like that, is all.”

“Why?” Arthur grunts, “Then you could see some of your old buddies.”

Kieran frowns. “Ain’t my friends. Barely even acquaintances. It’s serious, you know. If they saw me... well... especially after what happened up at Six Point. They’d gut me if they had the chance.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Or, you might just go scurrying back to them.”

“I really ain’t an O’Driscoll. I never was and don’t want to be, either. I can help, too. I want to!” Kieran says all too quickly. “I know you all don’t consider me much apart of the gang—“

“And you’re not.” Arthur interrupts. He digs his heels against his horse, quickening the pace.

Kieran does, as well. “Well—”

Arthur tugs the reins of his horse, closing the gap between them and stopping suddenly in front of Branwen. If they had been going any faster, the other horse surely would have reared, but instead stops with a loud whinny. On his warhorse, Arthur is more than a head taller than Kieran, and just at the right angle to grab him by the neckerchief wrapped around his neck and twist him a foot up off his saddle, onto his toes; he makes a strangled noise, squeezing his thighs to stop the horse before he walks off without him on top.

“Listen to me—“ Arthur’s keeps his voice low, growling cigarette-rough from his throat. This close, Kieran can’t avoid his gaze, can’t get away, a rabbit without a burrow. “It’s just gonna be the two of us on the road. Just the two of us.”

Kieran swallows. Branwen nickers beneath him, pawing at the ground.

“I need you to do what you’re told. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. I don’t need lip. I brought you because you’re good with horses, and everybody else was busy.” Arthur says. “You got that?”

“Yes’m.”

Arthur holds Kieran’s gaze for one moment more before he lets go of his neckerchief. Kieran almost loses his seating; immediately, Branwen walks ahead a few paces, snorting and tossing his head. Kieran runs a shaky hand down his mane.

“Good man.”

—

 

Usually when Arthur arrives at Emerald Ranch, it’s in the dead of night, driving a new four-horse team down the road as Seamus waves him into the opening barn doors. By the time Kieran and Arthur are trotting past the station, the sun is high in the sky and the clouds are drifting off west, towards the mountains. It’s almost novel to be here in the day, when men are still laboring and women in the yards are hanging up the wash, but mostly it feels strange, like they should be sneaking around instead of parading right through. Nobody pays them any mind, however, except the ranch shepherd, who barks at their horses heels and follows them on the path towards the main barn. Emerald Ranch has plenty of visitors, on account of the nearby train station, though less since they’ve closed down the small bar.

The horses are still out in the yard, about a dozen strong and two foals; Kieran cranes his head to look with a quiet _huhn_. They look like good, healthy horses, though none of them stand out in particular.

Seamus is standing at the workshop next to the barn, bent over the anvil with a red horseshoe grasped between his tongs. He glances up at the barking at the dog, and if he’s any bit surprised, his face is neutral by the time Arthur and Kieran hitch their horses at the post across the way.

“Seamus.”

He’s approached his table by the time they’re off their horses, the horsehoe is still on the anvil, having cooled back to black. There’s a dark smudge of soot across the bridge of his nose, the top of his balding head, and what’s left of his black hair looks singed and dry. “Hm, Arthur.” The man grunts, tilting his head in greeting. Seamus has a narrow, suspicious type of face that only pinches narrower as he surveys Kieran with a guarded look, his eyes flitting between him, to Arthur, trying to suss out what Kieran knew. “And who’s this feller?”

“Kieran Duffy.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Works for me.”

Kieran tilts his head. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Seamus grunts, then turns back to Arthur, apparently satisfied enough with that introduction. “What’ll you need, then? Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

Arthur twists his satchel around to his front, opening the flap and pulling out a package wrapped tight in scrap cloth. “Well, got a few things for you to look over.” Arthur has some of his own Lemoyne Raider memorabilia that he hadn’t gotten around to pawning yet, and Hosea had given him some of the items sitting in the tithing box. “And, was wondering if you knew anything about where to get a good horse.”

“A good horse?” Seamus shrugs, leaning over the table as Arthur unwraps the bundle; he lays out the pieces of jewelry on the table, an engraved lighter, a platinum belt buckle. “Well, the ranch has fine ones here— mostly farm work, though. Drafts and such.”

“Might be looking for something a little nicer.”

Seamus squints at Arthur. “How nice? I know that stable owner up in Valentine is real particular with his papers, has quite a few quality horses.” He pauses, “And down south, I heard they raise race horses.”

“Near Lemoyne?” Arthur clarifies, though he knows the answer, shaking his head to Seamus’ nod. “No, no, that won’t work.” Besides, if they hadn’t just come from that way, Dutch has been firm on that. He doesn’t want to make trouble near camp, nowhere near Rhodes. Not until they’ve scoped the area fully and seen what they might be able to make of it. A new horse isn’t worth it if they have to uproot themselves again.

“Well. My suggestion, then, is to go to Valentine.” Seamus wipes his gloves off on his blacksmith’s apron before picking up one of the necklaces Arthur brought, turning it over in his hands. A silver chain with a finely carved locket at the end, it looks especially pretty and delicate against the dull rubber. From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Kieran watching the table. “You can talk to the owner, Mister... think it’s Levi, Mr. Levi. But, I’d talk to the stable boy there as well, Jeremiah.” Seamus’ eyes flit up, his brows rising, “Used to work here. Might help you with something else.”

Seamus takes all that he’s brought him, and the money he slides Arthur’s way is fair enough, considering the source of the things. Not enough to buy a horse outright, even if it was his or solely Dutch’s to spend. Arthur turns to Kieran as they walk away from the barn, licking his thumb before he shifts through the creased bills in his hand. Kieran’s watching him with an odd expression, going odder still as he watches him count.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You’re not getting a cut on this.” Arthur clarifies, “If we find something in Valentine, sure—“

“That weren’t—“ Kieran shakes his head, embarrassed, though Arthur doesn’t know what for. “Never expected a cut.”

“Sure.”

It’s late by the time they’re finished with Seamus, too late to make it up to Valentine before nightfall; the sun is already starting to set, and though Arthur is tempted in the abstract to buy a set of train tickets and get them up to Valentine by the end of the night, the price isn’t worth the time saved. They set up camp not far from Emerald, as soon as they find a nice patch of rolling field that Arthur’s horse is hesitant to leave. Kieran sets up the tent while Arthur starts a fire.

The humidity of the south is gone, but that means the night now holds a crisper chill, and a wind is picking up unfettered over the treeless prairie. Arthur folds the collar of his jacket up, to cover his neck. His tinder box is well-stocked with dry grass and cloth scraps, so it lights easily, though he still has to shield the fire and coax it to life once he transfers it to the twigs and underbrush he’s gathered for the fire.

Kieran approaches Arthur from behind, but he stays quiet until Arthur breathes life into the fire. “The tent’s finished.”

All Arthur does is hum his reply, throwing more tinder into the flames. Kieran’s footsteps retreat.

When he comes back, Kieran’s wearing a coat he doesn’t recognize— or, he does, but not in the context of Kieran wearing it. When he places Branwen’s saddle down next to the fire, and turns, Arthur can see where one of the girls must have stitched a patch over the bullet hole that tore through Davey; it’s a lighter shade of blue than the rest of the garment, but otherwise they did a fine job stitching.

“You make out alright with Grimshaw?”

Kieran glances around, first, as if Arthur was asking the horses instead of him. “Oh, alright.” He holds up his arm. Davey’s coat fits fine; the sleeves are a little short on his long arms, but wearing all the layers he is underneath, its not as big as Arthur had figured it would be on his frame. “Just nice to have something, well— new to me, I guess.”

He carefully wedges two cans right at the edge of the fire, into the sandy dirt, his hands flinching back to his body when the heat becomes too unbearable. Once the paper blisters on one side, the baked beans should be warm enough to eat. As soon as they’re done, they eat in silence.

“Mr. Morgan...” Kieran hesitates. Arthur scrapes his spoon thoroughly and noisily around the tin, trying to catch the last of the sauce from the grooves.

“You got a plan, right?”

Arthur heaves out a sigh, pausing to pop his spoon in his mouth, clean enough when it comes out.

“Look,” Arthur grunts. “I don’t like the idea of heading up to Valentine so soon after all the commotion we caused, neither. But, I’m gonna need a little bit of trust I’m not looking to get you killed. Not yet, at least.”

Kieran swallows. “Point taken.”

A little bit of trust. A little bit of faith— but as soon as that word enters his mind, it’s chased by a bubble of laughter that feels more like vomit coming up, unwanted and reflexive, his throat constricting in strange ways. Kieran jumps a foot in his seat.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’, really.” Arthur rubs at the corner of his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It really isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this is going to be 3 chapters!  
> the narrator: this was never going to be 3 chapters
> 
> please, I would love comments and/or crits, they’re my lifeblood.


	3. chance of high winds in thorny trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: the name of the stable owner was changed in this chapter and the previous to reflect what it is in game

Arthur wears his hat tilted low over his face, has been since they’ve gotten within spitting distance of Valentine. Otherwise, Arthur isn’t showing any other signs he’s nervous. He usually never seems nervous, though, so maybe Kieran should be worried. Kieran doesn’t think anyone will recognize Arthur. It hasn’t been long since the gang has moved from Horseshoe to Clemen’s Point, but he hasn’t trimmed his hair nor his beard since, and his clothes are different, besides. On the ride from Emerald under the sun, he had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows; there’s dark hair dusted up his arms, peeking out from the collar of his shirt. If Arthur lets the hair on his neck grow out anymore, Kieran’s sure it may connect all the way from the top of his head to his toes, though that’s a thought and a half that he quashes under his thumb before it crawls any further through his mind—

“Listen, I’m going to stable the horses.” Arthur’s voice jolts him out of his head. Kieran cants his hips on Branwen, slowing him down as they approach the Valentine stable doors.

They’ve been silent most of the trip, and Kieran has to clear his throat before he can speak: “Good idea, Arthur.”

Arthur shifts a look towards Kieran, then towards the closed barn doors. The stable boy has noticed their slowed pace, and he’s moving towards the doors, grumbling all the while. Arthur utters a woah under his breath as his warhorse slows to a stop, rounding slightly to half step in front of him and Branwen. Branwen slows to a stop in turn. “I want us to split up. I’ll talk to that Mr. Levi, try to find that stableboy Seamus mentioned— I’m trusting you to scare something else up, if this doesn’t work out.”

Kieran tenses. “By myself?” Kieran’s gaze shifts warily. Valentine is firmly in O’Driscoll boy territory; though, after the Van der Lindes swept through, decimating Six Point Cabin and shaking down the racket in the doctor’s backroom, their presence has been noticeably lessened in town. But it was a culling, not an extermination, and Kieran knows how quickly and easily Colm acquires new members.

“This that trust I was talking about.” Arthur says, though Kieran is convinced it’s less trust and more wanting to get him out of his hair. “How old are you, boy?”

“I’m— it ain’t that.” Kieran flushes, feel shame wash over him in waves. He’s nervous to walk around here when the town was known to host O’Driscoll’s, but he has a pistol on his hip. Maybe the transient nature of the gang would help him; maybe he’s been forgotten by now, just another nameless face to Colm O’Driscoll. Kieran’s more surprised that Arthur is letting him out of his sight, though. They don’t do that back at camp. He doesn’t want to tell Arthur that; more likely to take the little freedom away if Kieran points that out. When Arthur’s gaze doesn’t falter, he mutters, barely concealing his bitter annoyance, “Twenty-five, abouts.”

Arthur tilts his head. “You want to be a part of the gang?” Arthur reaches forwards, grabbing Branwen’s reins from Kieran’s hand. “You have to prove yourself. You heard Dutch, back at Horseshoe: no more freeloaders.”

Arthur’s voice is firm, bordering on that low, dangerous tone. Kieran has to bite his tongue; he doesn’t want to protest. He could mention the fact that Uncle and Reverend haven’t done anything of import of months, rarely chore, and Dutch hasn’t batted an eye sideways at them. That may be true, but it’s not going to endear Arthur to him in the least.

“Check out the station, maybe the general store, see if there’s any fliers for horses for sale, overhear any talks of that kind of a business... I’ll meet you at the saloon, after.” Arthur’s voice leaves no room for argument, besides. “We clear?”

Kieran squares his shoulders, and he gives Branwen’s flank a pat before he swings his leg over and steps down from the horse. The mud splatters up onto his half-chaps. “Of course, Mr. Morgan.”

“And try not to cause any trouble.”

“Weren’t dream of it.”

Arthur leads their horses into the barn. Over the din of the town, he can hear Arthur’s voice greeting the stable master before the doors are shut behind him by a boy no older than thirteen. It’s been over four months since Kieran Duffy has been under the constant eye of the Van Der Linde Gang, and before that six months under the O’Driscolls, and just like that, he’s suddenly standing there alone, calf deep in the Valentine mud.

“You gonna move?”

Kieran blinks down at him. The stableboy barely reaches Kieran’s chest, but he barks as if he’s fully grown, arms crossed over his chest and sporting a nasty shiner on his left eye.

“Pardon—“ Kieran glances around. He is in the pathway of the barn door, so he takes a few steps back, where there’s still some grass and solid footing. The stableboy turns for the barn.

Kieran had been young when he had lost his parents; too young, only eleven, which he bluffed to thirteen to find his way into a horse stable in order to avoid being left out on the street. He’s never been the brash sort, though he seemed to annoy most of the men he ever had the displeasure to work for. Some of the other boys he worked with, too. There wasn’t much other work for a boy like him, though; sickly and lean, no parents. He’s been that boy before, or been bullied by one just like him.

“Are you, uh, Jeremiah?”

The boy stops, turns back around. He’s a dirty thing, and in the throes of burgeoning manhood, if the wispy hairs on his upper lip are any indication. “Whose it to know?”

“Kieran Du— uh, Dutch.” Internally, he curses himself for thinking of such a stupid name; at least, he didn’t say Van der Linde, though that kind of slip-up would have gotten him driven out of town or thrown hog-tied on the sheriff’s desk in hopes of receiving a bounty. He holds out his hand, and though Jeremiah initially looks at it like its something dead, he approaches him and takes it with an uneasy grip. “We’re lookin’ for some horses, and Seamus up at Emerald Ranch mentioned your name.”

“Huh!” Jeremiah stares down at his feet, shoving a hand in the pocket of his work overalls.Jeremiah grinds the heel of his work boots into the mud, glancing up. “Yeah, maybe I know Seamus.”

Kieran rummages into his pockets. He doesn’t have much; literally what he carries is his life savings, small coins he’s found and pocketed since Arthur had frisked what little he had from him face down in the snow. Jeremiah snatches the two coins Kieran places in his hand away and into the pocket of his overalls, before he can change his mind

“What kinda horses are you looking for?” He sort of mumbles it, gesturing for Kieran to follow around the back.

Kieran trots after him, fumbling to keep up as the suction of the mud clings hard to his boots. There are a few horses in the yard behind the stables, but they’re all common types: Tennessee Walkers, Morgans. “Somethin’ real nice. Trying to replace an Arabian.”

“Shoot. An Arabian!” The boy clucks his tongue against his teeth. “You against a horse that look like one, but don’t act like one?”

“If you’re asking me if I want a painted mule, the answer’s no.” Kieran says quickly, “I need a real, quality horse.”

“What price?”

“How cheap?”

The boy laughs. He leads him through the canvas tents and wagons of the laborers nearby, dodging workers hauling hay. It’s not too unlike their own camp; men are crowded around a stew pot on a spit, and a dirty-faced woman darning socks underneath a tarp pays them no mind as they pass. “Mister, you must not know the first thing about horses if you want one cheap and good.”

Kieran huffs out a nervous laugh between his teeth. “Think I know a thing or two.”

“That so?”

“Used to work at stables, myself.” He glances behind him, towards the barn. He can’t recognize the first word, but he does recognize the hand-painted white letters of & Sons painted on the side. “You one of Mr. Levi’s sons?” 

The boy follows his gaze, over his shoulder. “Nah. Not really. Out-placement. Mercy train.”

From here, Kieran can hear the music of the visiting picture-show from the technicolor tent, its bright flags flapping in the wind. He weaves naturally around people and presses through small gaps between the fences; Kieran has to concentrate to keep up, not to trip over himself. Jeremiah leads him to the livestock pens, to a group of men who are loitering around the sheep pens, leather boots propped up on the metal rails of the fence.

“Hey, fellers,” Jeremiah calls, “Let me introduce you to Kieran— what’s it, again?”

“Kieran,” His voice is clear this time, his handshake steady, “Kieran Dutch.”

 

—

Arthur leans against the bar, looming hunched over his journal with pencil in hand. He’s been waiting for about an hour now, and he likes to get in his journaling when he can. His beer is nearer his far elbow, and he’s careful not to knock the bottle over as he jots down his notes: _Arabian, Missouri Fox-Trotter, Turkomann, Mustang_ , in a single neat line, underneath a quick sketch of a horse.

Though Arthur’s sure he’s met Mr. Levi before, on account of having sold him a draft horse to him with Hosea some time back, he doesn’t remember him and thankfully he’s not remembered in return. At least, if the man did recognize Arthur, he has the decency not to say anything. Mr. Levi had given him a tour of the facilities, and the current horses for sale in the stable. One of them was a Missouri Fox-Trotter, a beautiful, sleek grey mare with an even disposition; her price was too astronomical for Arthur to even consider in any capacity, though he drew her all the same.

The other names had been Levi’s recommendations, based on Arthur’s description of the Count. He hadn’t found any leads past that. Couldn’t find any sign of the stable boy Seamus had mentioned, either. Arthur hates the idea of having to go back to Clemen’s Point empty handed, but all of his leads are turning out to be dead ends.

_Still searching for a replacement for The Count. Afraid nothing will replace that horse, at least in Dutch’s eyes._

Arthur taps his pencil against the bar, pauses to flag down the bartender. He uncaps a beer and slides it in front of him.

_Kieran is_

His pencil hovers. Arthur stares at the blank space, taking a sip as he does so. Kieran is... starting to listen? Making himself useful? Possibly already strung up by a few O’Driscoll’s over by the train station? Has already hightailed it out of here, never to be heard from again?

Instead of continuing, Arthur shuts his journal, wraps it twice around with twine and shoves it deep into his satchel.

“Arthur!”

He glances up from latching his satchel closed. Arthur’s face brightens, momentarily, from the surprise of seeing Kieran making his way through the saloon crowd, a crooked grin over his face. He looks to be all in one piece, so he reckons none of the local populace gave him trouble, and there weren’t any run-ins with the O’Driscoll’s that skulked around the town.

“Huh, so you didn’t run off.” Arthur pulls out the barstool next to him.

“Course not!” Kieran looks hesitantly confident as he slides into the seat next to Arthur, facing him instead of the bar. “I found Jeremiah.”

“Oh!” Now that’s a real surprise. “You the one who found him. Any help?”

“Sorta.” Kieran is still being coy, like he’s got something real good up his sleeve. He flags down the bartender for a beer. “Did you find anything out from Mr. Levi?”

“Well, not exactly,” Arthur shrugs, watching as the bartender slides Kieran an opened bottle. “Put it on my tab.” He self-interrupts, before continuing, “He’s got a beautiful horse in that stable, that’s for sure. Missouri Fox-Trot, real sweet disposition.”

Kieran looks pleasantly flushed even before he takes a sip of his ale, “Price?”

“Too much for us.” Arthur pauses, “And Mr. Levi seems like a decent fellow.” He mutters. Kieran seems to understand the implication with his solemn nod. They had burnt most of their ties in Valentine, but there was no reason to try and ruin a decent man’s livelihood here. They were outlaws, but not that sort; they weren’t O’Driscolls, after all.

“Well,” Kieran shifts on his barstool. “I overheard that there’s a wild herd spotted somewhere south of Twin Stack Pass, but, and I ain’t meaning to assume, but I wouldn’t think they’d be the quality Dutch is after.” Kieran leans over the bar. “We’re out too far east. Those kind of horses just ones that got loose from someone’s pasture, probably, or stagecoach robbery gone wrong.”

Kieran is smart, and Arthur realizes, with some hesitation, this is not the first time he’s thought this. It wouldn’t ever be voiced aloud, not like his barely cloaked praise for Lenny. Kieran has a glassy look to his eye. “And, well. I overheard somethin’ else— mind, it’s a rumor and a half, but, I don’t know—“

“O’Driscoll,” Arthur raps his knuckles against the wood of the bar, “The point.”

His shoulders nearly come up to his ears. “There’s talk of an Arabian up in Ambarino, near the mountains there.” Kieran rushes the sentence out all in one breath, “Said its made of ice and faster than snowfall in January. White as snow, too. Just like the Count.” Kieran holds out his hands, “Some of the men over near the livestock barn saids they had a map with the location, and all other kinds of animals, too. They said they’d sell it to me, fifty dollars”

“Well...” Arthur hesitates. “That... could be promising.”

Kieran sucks in a breath between his teeth, his face lighting up. “You really think? I- I mean—“ He leans in close to Arthur, schooling his face into something more benign, though as he speaks an excited smile creeps back onto his face. “I think it’s good information, really. Wouldn’t be telling you if I didn’t think there was some truth in it—”

Other kinds of animals. The realization hits Arthur like a ton of bricks, makes him balk at how dense he is. He holds up a hand, and Kieran’s excited speech stops dead as Arthur jumps off his barstool, slapping Kieran on the arm enthusiastically. He flinches against the impact. “Get me a new beer, I need to grab something— you’re onto something—”

Arthur draws a few sideways glances running out of the saloon and down the road towards the stable. He’s comes back with a roll of paper tucked under his arm to a meek looking Kieran and an irritated bartender, but Arthur settles him with a look.

Arthur spreads out the map across the bar; Kieran helpfully holds a curled side down, crowding in close to Arthur, shoulder to shoulder. They both lean over the bar, casting the entire surface in shadow.

“Hosea gave me this.” Arthur supplies, unasked. Its title, _Legendary Animals of the Southern United States of America_ , in a flowery cursive typeface, belies the truth behind it. Arthur’s not the type to deal in rumors and rituals; legendary invokes something fantastical, but the map hasn’t steered him wrong yet. That was Hosea in his true essence, flamboyant flourishes to hide the truth. Hosea and him had found that bear, bigger than any he’s seen before and since, and it lead him true to an albino fox and a jet black coyote nearly the size of a wolf.

Kieran leans in, a look of unmasked awe on his face. “This is... it could be it.”

“Where’d you say that horse was?”

“They said— North. Ambarino.” Kieran’s sitting so close, he can feel just the faintest hint of his breath against his bearded cheek, his words hurried and hushed, “In the Grizzlies.”

A few animals dot the north in Ambarino. A buck, a bighorn ram, a wolf. Arthur traces his finger across the paper. Further north, where the map goes white, there’s Lake Isabella, and the sketch of a buffalo. Arthur’s finger goes back to the reference: 6, White Buffaloe. Arthur sucks in a breath. And to the left of the buffalo, near the trees, a smaller figure, faint, is the silhouette of a horse, as if forgotten, or possibly erased.

Kieran searches the map, squinting hard. He moves his lips, trying to silently work out the words; he’s struggling.

He reaches up, taps where Lake Isabella is, to the north. (Makes a mental note that Kieran can’t read, to maybe ask Mary-Beth to tutor him, when Ms. Grimshaw wasn’t driving her too hard.) Kieran chuckles self-depreciatively, glancing at Arthur. Pressed side-to-side like this, his face is awfully close. Kieran has soft bags under his eyes, a shadow that mottles almost a light purple on his skin tone, his lips quirked hopeful. “Well, that’s not too far. All things considered.”

“We leave tomorrow morning, we’d get there before noon.” Arthur agrees in a murmur.

“You sure?” Kieran says, too loud for how close they are, and then flinches, lowers his voice to ask again: “You sure?”

Arthur snorts. He’s at a loss for words; not really sure what to say, and what he can think of makes his gut tighten in strange ways. So he raises his beer bottle and Kieran raises his, in turn, grinning as they clink their bottles over the map.

“Good job.” Is what he finally settles on. Arthur takes a swig, “Keep this up, maybe you will become one of us.”

“I’m tryin’, you know.” Arthur can hear Kieran’s nervous swallow, with how close they’re sitting. He licks his lips nervously, eyes darting over to Arthur. “I really am. I’ve been with you all longer then them, and I— I like y’all much more rightly, even if you all make most of my days a living hell.”

“How bad was Colm, then?”

“Not like I interacted with him much.” Kieran snorts, looking at his clasped fists he’s folded over the map like they’re the most interesting things in the world. “Last time I saw him, he weren’t too happy, and that was before you roped me down.”

“I know. I was there.”

Arthur can recall that first time seeing Kieran through his binoculars, knee-deep in snow, crouched over the hill. He had only been focused on Colm at the time, though of course, that meant watching Kieran wildly gesticulating his displeasure. “What were you two talkin’ about, anyway?”

Kieran looks dour. “The horses were runnin’ out of food.”

He’s sure the backhand couldn’t have made such a crack through the valley, the way he remembers it, but Kieran’s head had jerked completely back at the force of the blow, Arthur does remember that in truth. Strange to think of now, but Kieran must have been standing up to Colm and talking back in some way to earn that kind of treatment. 

Awful brave, for someone like him to do so. Awful _stupid_ , though they usually went hand-in-hand.

“Sounds like you’re lucky we found you, then.”

Arthur idly scratchiest at the letters imprinted in the dark glass of his beer. Dragging his thumb down the side of his bottle, until his thumbnail catches the raised lettering embedded in the heavy dark glass. The sounds of the bar fill in the silence between them. He sits back in his seat, reaching for the edges of the map and rolling it back up. Kieran moves back, suddenly; Arthur hadn’t realized how little he had actually been sitting on his own barstool.

Arthur turns to tuck the map into his satchel, adjusting it so that it protrudes out as minimally as he can manage. Kieran’s staring hard at his own beer.“Well—“ He looks at Arthur, stops himself, as if wrestling if he should even speak, his words edging bitterly sarcastic, “I thought you considered it lucky for every day you didn’t kill me where I stood?”

“You know,” Arthur grouses. “I was just jokin’ with you.”

“Didn’t feel like much of a joke. Never does.” Kieran mumbles glumly.

“Sometimes my jokes fall a little flat.” Arthur sighs. “I... hm.” He starts, then stops, “Ain’t just you. That’s why I try and keep my head down, keep my mouth shut. Do my work.”

“So do I.” Kieran says, a little too sincere, because right after he tips his beer back and swallows back half the bottle, pointedly avoiding Arthur’s stare. And it’s true, isn’t it? He’s been keeping himself steady all day, cringing less and quietly heeding orders more.

“I know, and I—“ Arthur exhales, his teeth closing with a click at the end, as if he can bite the words back before they come out. “I do appreciate it. Alright? You did good today.” He admits, glancing over at Kieran.

Kieran has a sort of shy smile on his face, but when his eyes meet Arthur’s, it falls, his eyes darting up as he struggles to contain it. The giddiness lingers in the corners of his eyes, though, crinkling somewhat even in the dark of the saloon. “All I’ve been trying for.” His eyes shift, “You know, you’re one of the last ones who treat me like that. You, and Mrs. Adler. Even Javier’s been lettin’ up some.”

Arthur snorts with dry amusement, “Well, I hope you ain’t saving your breath, especially on Mrs. Adler.” He shakes his head as he takes a sip of his beer. “Those O’Driscoll boys did her wrong.”

“I knew the boys who were going up that way.” He scratches at his neck. “Fat Tommy, he was... I can guess what happened.”

“I’m sure you can.” Arthur pauses. “Wasn’t he one of the ones you tried to threaten me with, way back up in Colter?”

“Surprise you remember.” Kieran mumbles, sounding chagrined. “Weren’t on account of liking him, that’s for sure, but he was a big, mean son of a bitch.”

“Huh. Him and that other feller?”

“No. Declan. He...” Kieran shakes his head, staring off across the bar.  “Never mind.”

“Hm.” Kieran wont meet Arthur’s eyes. “Either way, he’s six feet under, now.”

“Sure is.”

Arthur and Kieran order themselves another round of drinks: a whiskey and beer this time, and two plates of lamb’s fry. The offal comes out steaming hot, drenched in gravy and served with a heap of mashed potatoes. As thin as he is, Kieran eats a storm, inhaling his food faster than Arthur and leaving his bowl thrice as clean.

Patrons filter in and out around them. The piano player arrives as the sun is starting to set through the grimy, smoke-stained windows, playing a jaunty tune. Arthur’s mind is becoming pleasantly fuzzy by his fifth beer. They should probably leave after this one; as nice as it would be to have a few more, they need to wake early tomorrow and head out on time. Arthur eyes the barber from his stool, cards his fingers through his beard. It’s starting to grow a little unruly for polite company. Maybe on their way back from the Grizzlies, Arthur will get a nice trim in Valentine, if it all goes well. Though the thought goes just as fast as it came, his stomach souring at the idea of getting his beard styled and trimmed for— who? Nobody in particular. Not Mary, who he hasn’t heard from since he rescued her boyish brother from some nonsense turtle cult. No real need to spend money on his ugly mug, was there.

There’s a shout from behind him. That’s not unusual; there’s always a poker game going at the table, and it can get rowdy. But there it is again, a little louder and closer, and the name is too familiar:

“Kieran Duffy!”

Arthur exhales through his nose with a sigh, looking straight forward. In the mirror above the back of the bar, he can see the two men approach. Kieran goes rabbit still, eyes wide, too startled to even turn around. Arthur doesn’t turn his head; he doesn’t want them to realize that they’re together, and they don’t seem to, not once glancing in Arthur’s direction. One takes the empty barstool next to Kieran, and the other loiters behind, looming a good few feet above him seated. They look similar to each other, brothers, maybe, and Arthur can clearly smell at least one of them.

“Kieran god-damn Duffy!” The seated one slaps the bar top with his over-the-top guffaw. Kieran jolts and flinches, instinctive. He has an accent, though Arthur can’t place the whereabouts of it. Not that awful Irish drawl, at least. “My oh my, who’da thought we’d ever see you again?”

Arthur braces his elbows against the edge of the bar, unbuttons his shirt cuffs, folding them back and away from his wrist.

“Oh—“ Kieran squirms in his seat, shrinking away from the man, only to bump against Arthur. He flinches away from that contact, too, and instead tries to sink downward, possibly fold up into himself. “I think you’re mistaken, I ain’t no Kieran Duffy, sir.”

Arthur unbuttons the top button of his fully-buttoned work shirt, as well. He hates burdening the girls when he pops a button, especially since they’re awful hard to find on the saloon floor.

“No, no...” The man behind him suddenly pipes up, looming closer, sniffing audibly. “I remember you. I remember you good. You was with us before.”

“Word is you got taken by that Van der Linde feller!”

“And look at you! Still alive?”

“Well, you know why, right, Pawel?”

“Oh, no, maybe I’m not all caught up. Remind me, Patryk.”

“You didn’t hear how he’s the one who lead ‘em to us over at the cabins?” Patryk leans in closer towards Kieran, grinning wide. His grimy fingernails are drumming a solid, steady tempo over the bar. “He sold us out. Nasty business, ain’t it, but apparently nice enough they kept him alive after.”

The bartender has wandered over warily now, only half paying attention to the highball glass he’s drying with a rag in his hands. Arthur finishes his beer in a few gulps, placing it down towards the bartender. Arthur pays out his bill, pressing the paper to the bar top, and a few extra coins on top. The barkeep stares at it with confusion.

“Thank you kindly.” He says, in all earnestness.

Arthur rises, his barstool skittering back a foot across the floor. The man standing closest to him, Pawel, turns as Arthur pivots on his heel takes him by the shoulder, pulls his fist back and clocks him straight across the face.

Kieran jumps up. His barstool falls clear to the floor, barely stopping Patryk’s lurch forward to grab Kieran.

Arthur grapples Pawel by the front of his coat, throwing him around and shoving his shoulder into him to thrust his body against the bar. He has the luck of surprise on his side; Pawel struggles, but clutches awkwardly at Arthur’s firm grip on his lapels. Arthur swings his fist twice, three times in an arc, the fingers of his other hand curled tight in his jacket sleeves as he crushed his knuckles into Pawel’s face. His nose cracks on the third; he crumples on the third, his back against the bar, arms splayed out just catching himself from falling to the floor.

Arthur turns on his heel. Nearby patrons are shouting, there’s the high-pitched squealing of the working girls. Patryk is throwing Kieran to the ground, away from the bar, jumping on top of him as soon as he falls.

Arthur growls, lumbering forward and grabbing the man by the collar of his jacket, wrenching him back. Kieran looks dazed.

“Get up!” Arthur barks.

“Arthur—“

A fist comes down, hard, against the back of Arthur’s head. Arthur stumbles and falls. There’s piano music still going on in the background, below the din of the crowd. Was— now, all the can hear is the ringing between his ears, the rest of the world swallowed up in cotton.

Pawel steps into view, above him, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. He can see the other man from the darkening corners of his vision stagger off, fists raised. Pawel pulls Arthur to his feet. The motion of it, the sudden change of the world on its axis as his body is uprighted and the cotton flushes out, the piano keys crashing back down. Arthur just barely manages to raise his arms against the first punch. He wrenches backwards, out of Pawel’s grasp on his shirt. (A button, he can feel it, snapping from its thread in that grimy O’Driscoll fist, skittering across the saloon floor.) Arthur steps back, raising his fists. There’s blood dripping from his nose, where his knuckles broke the skin across the bridge, down the front of him; he’s dazed, moreso than Arthur, his arms faltering as he shifts his stance.

Arthur jabs a fist, though the other man blocks it. He feints another, weak one, a test; he blocks this, and Arthur swings his other fist. It’s not a powerful blow, but enough when it connects to Pawel’s temple that his eyes roll into the back of his head and he crumples where he stands.

Arthur turns as a hand settles onto his shoulder, ducking as he does so. It throws Patryk’s swing off balance, his shoulder slamming into Arthur’s chest. Beyond him, Kieran is on the ground, though Arthur doesn’t have the time to even figure if he’s knocked out or not, on account of the fist coming for his face. His pulse is thrumming somewhere between his ears, ocean-loud.

Arthur shifts his feet, ducks when a fist comes to swing towards his head. He jabs once, trying to look at Kieran, and receives in turn a jab to his chest. He’s stirring now on the ground, dragging himself up onto his hands and knees.

Arthur grapples Patryk by his coat lapels, struggles to walk him over. Patryk is singularly focused on Arthur, and when the backs of his legs hit Kieran he loses all balance, falls ass over teakettle onto his back, his head cracking loud against the wooden floor. Kieran scrambles on top of him; he fists his hand into the front of his union suit, and Arthur can hear the fabric tearing as he punches him in the face, once, twice, blood arcing from his knuckles and spraying out across the floor. Patryk’s fist comes up, blindly, and though it connects with Kieran’s jaw its too weak to do much other than delay his punches by a moment.

Reflexively, Arthur reaches for his side; his breath catches as he looks down to confirm, patting at empty air. The map is no longer sticking out from the corner of his satchel. He turns on his heel, wildly scanning the saloon— and there, having rolled under the bar, trapped under an upturned stool and half torn at the edge. Arthur scrambles to grab it, nearly bashing his head on the underside of the bar as does so. The bartender is shouting from behind the bar; ducking under, no doubt, to pull out a firearm.

“Kieran!” Arthur swears, “Shit—“

There’s blood down the front of Kieran’s face, pouring freely down his nose, the curve of his jaw. His eyes are unfocused, though he stares up at Arthur as he approaches. Patryk lies unmoving next to him; Arthur’s too focused on Kieran to notice if his chest was still rising or not.

Arthur picks Kieran up by his armpits; his legs buckle before he can find his feet, leaning back heavily against Arthur. His head lolls back against his chest; his face is something to behold, blood dried to the color of brick under his nose, his eyes momentarily fluttering with the effort of standing upright. He’s practically dead weight, but that’s not much, considering Kieran’s slim frame; Arthur’s more inconvenienced by the height of him.

“How’d I do?” He ventures, meekly, wincingly looking up at Arthur with only one eye open. He seems to sag a little more against him, and Arthur holds him steady.

“I’ve seen worse.” Arthur is nothing but truthful, but he says it as he means it: _you did good, kid_ , and it’s true, because Kieran isn’t like him. He’s no brawler. That’s not a bad thing. Most good things weren’t similar to him in the least bit. “C’mon,” The bartender is starting to climb out from behind the bar, now that half of the brawlers are lying in agony on the floor. The cocking of his shotgun is particularly loud now that the dust is settling. “Let’s get out of here.”

Kieran wobbles as he stands; Arthur slings his arm under and around Kieran, clutching tight around his ribs. He’s a warm, solid weight against his side, and he finds his footing as they stumble out of the saloon, the doors swinging open into the cool night air.

“Thanks for not letting them kill me, an’ all.”

“Welcome. Wouldn’t want anyone to take my rightfully earned place.” Kieran turns his head, and they’re so close it knocks against Arthur’s, momentarily makes his cheekbone sting something awful. He has to blink a blurriness out of his eyes, Kieran’s bloody face swimming into focus. All he does is grip Kieran tighter, puts his feet one in front of the other, towards the direction of the stables and the hotel, away from the noise and the sheriff’s office. “If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me, O’Driscoll.”

Next to Arthur’s ear, Kieran Duffy bursts into genuine laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m p stoked that I’m keeping to a once a week posting schedule, and honestly i know its in part due to the great feedback I’m getting :’’) thank you everyone for reading and commenting!!


	4. and, behold,

Arthur rises before the sun the next morning, surprised to feel his spirits considerably lightened. It’s not that he’s excited about having to trek up the mountains, to bear the cold on a rumor, a smudge on a map. It’s nearly as expensive as the horses they’ve encountered, but he’ll dare a chance at faint optimism. He’s never found breaking horses to be a positive endeavor, but they’re too empathetic of an animal to go in with any attitude but confidence.

They layer on their winter gear before leaving Valentine. Kieran is— Arthur can’t place his finger on it. Something’s changed since yesterday, and it’s not the temperature drop, nor the elevation. They ride in silence, but it feels more companionable, less Arthur forgetting that the other simply exists. The horses keep pace, side-by-side when the path and any incoming traffic allows for it.

They hug the banks of the Dakota River, crossing through the valley where the mountains part for a path. Arthur spies a wolf skulking near the tops of the rocky outcrops, outlined by the rising of the sun. Neither of the horses have noticed; Arthur reaches over, swats Kieran on the forearm for his attention, nodding upwards. But all the wolf does is watch; by the time they’ve reached a plateau, it has run off.

Arthur fishes a map and his compass from his saddlebags. Kieran slows Branwen’s pace, to match Arthur’s as his war horse plods up the steady incline. “We’re on the right track.” Arthur clears his throat. “We’ll go around Mount Hagen.” The air’s crisper up here, thinner. Feels good when Arthur breathes in, feel his chest expand. “We should pass the lagoon, an’ we’ll know we’re close when we hit a stream, west of that. Follow that north, and it’ll take us to the lake.”

“Sounds good.”

“We’re far enough north, hopefully we won’t run into any more of your kin.”

“Hah, hah.” Kieran shakes his head. “Ain’t my ‘kin’.”

“No?” Arthur’s rolling up his map, sliding it back into the saddlebags as the horses trot onward. “‘Cause by my reckoning, we fought a pair of O’Driscolls over in Smithfield’s Saloon.”

Kieran audibly exhales through his nose, trying to exert some control. “Ain’t my kin. I don’t have any left. My ma and pa died when I was little, but I was with them for longer than I rode with Colm, at least.”

Arthur pauses; the silence feels thick between them.

“And before them?”

“Well, worked at stables. Always loved horses. But got kicked out for no good reason, an’ had nowhere else to go. So I tried the military for a time.” Kieran glances to the sky with a huff, “That didn’t work out, either. After that, I rode with a small gang for a spell.”

“A gang?” Arthur barks out a laugh. “You and your horse don’t count as a gang, you know.”

“You’re a smart ass, you know.” Kieran shoots back, though he has the wherewithal to look apologetic when Arthur shoots him a withering glare. “Well. Ain’t like I was ever the brawn, like you, but I’ve always kept to the horses. And— And I’m good at finding things out, too! I got a trusting face, ‘n all.”

Arthur laughs again; a nearby tree bursts into life as birds fly from its branches at the noise. “Think highly of yourself, don’t you?” He exhales, “So, what? You sold out your old gang to join up with the O’Driscolls.”

Kieran looks hurt. “N-no, sir! They came into—“ His voice falters, eyes shifting low, “Came into our camp, and, well. They said, you either join up, or you die.” His forehead is lined with guilt; it hangs heavy like a yoke around his neck, his shoulders slumping. There’s too much unsaid between the pauses; O’Driscolls didn’t just _come into_ a rival gang camp like a sweet spring breeze. Arthur knows that from experience, newspaper clippings, seeing the bloodied remains. “And I guess I didn’t want to die, when I saw the rest of ‘em face down in the mud like that.” He looks over and up at Arthur from his horse, his words rushing out fast, “And I know, I know what you’re going to say, and you ain’t gotta say it. That a real man would’ve died instead of joining up with them. I know that.”

Arthur bites his tongue. It wouldn’t be his place to saying anything like that; and though it’s true, if he were to come back to the entire camp slaughtered, only told that his choice was between death or joining another— well, Arthur knows what he would choose. But that spoke more of him, than of Kieran.

Kieran looks away. “Believe me. I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

There’s patches of snow already dotting the land where the trees throw their shade, though Arthur’s noticing it’s further up than when they were last coming down the mountain, back in March. The skies are clear; if luck continues to favor them, it wont snow while they’re here. It’s much easier to recognize landmarks when they weren’t hurrying away from robbing Leviticus’ train and, more distantly but still present, the Blackwater Ferry.

Parts of it are almost beautiful, the way the mountains loom above and to the west of them, still magnificent as they approach. When they crest the hill, Kieran lets out a small, surprised gasp at Barrow Lagoon, perfectly iced over and still. Even this late into spring, it looks completely frozen; Arthur spies a hare bolting over the surface across the lake as they approach.

“So,” Kieran’s eyes follow the hare. They stick to the path around the lagoon. “I’m guessing you’ve been with the gang for a while?”

Arthur grunts noncommittally.

Kieran sighs through his nostrils. “Alright, then.”

“I have, I have.” Arthur grumbles, relenting. From the corner of his eye, he can see Kieran turn, fix him with a curious expression. “Been riding with Dutch and Hosea since I was a boy. Used to be just us, actually.”

Arthur sighs, “And they’re—“ He doesn’t want to say, they’re like fathers to me, though they are, as much as either can annoy him, Dutch especially as of late. He doesn’t know the words to explain it to Kieran; to explain, too, why he still prickles at him, how his hatred of the O’Driscolls runs deep. Annabelle and the hurt it caused Dutch. The amount of stupid decisions he’s made that’s put all of them in jeopardy, just for the opportunity for a chance to wring Colm’s neck. “The gang’s been good to me.”

Arthur keeps his warhorse moving, passing Kieran’s slow trot. “If you keep it up, they’ll be good to you, one day, too.”

The path is more worn down than it had been previously, tightly packed snow, dirtier from use, though none of the tracks are very recent, or anything other than wild animals crossing erratically by. Even if it hadn’t, its easy to find their way; around the lagoon, and Arthur can hear the burble of the creek running downstream. They follow the river to the mouth of the lake; by the time on Arthur’s pocket watch, just as he had said the day before, they’re calf-deep in snow and a thousand feet above sea level by eleven.

Kieran pulls the collar of his new coat up around his face. They guide the horses around the far edge of the lake, where some grass is sprouting along the waters edge. It’s completely placid, only occasionally disrupted by fish swimming just under the surface, stirring the water to lap against the ice edging around the shore.

“Well. Lake Isabella.” Arthur’s warhorse is already straining at his reins to bend his head towards the grass. He dismounts, bracing his hands against his lower back to stretch his tender joints after the long ride.

“You think we’ll be able to find it? The horse, I mean.”

“What choice do we have?” Arthur asks, reaching into his saddlebags. Kieran dismounts next to him, a fine layer of snow kicking up where he lands.

“Here.”

Kieran catches the round tin that Arthur throws, tilting it in his gloved hands. “What’s this?”

“Cover scent. Keeps most animals from noticing you.” Arthur gives his warhorse a few good sturdy pats, brushing snow from his back.

“Oh, huh.”

“It works well.” Arthur assures, “Charles’ recipe, actually.”

Kieran nods. “He’s a smart feller about that kind of thing, ain’t he. You and Charles.” He struggles, momentarily, with the lid of the tin as Arthur busies himself checking his horse over after the trip. “I know Mr. Van der Linde hates society, but he sure don’t seem the wilderness type like yourself, either.” Kieran says, tapering off into an awkward chuckle.

“Dutch is— Dutch is wild, in his own way.” Arthur feels a need to defend him, though Kieran’s words aren’t untrue or even mean. He doesn’t have the words to explain it, either. That they’re not quite civilized, but not quite wild, either; some state of in-between, natural to an environment that was vanishing fast under their feet. Arthur shrugs. “Don’t know if I consider myself appreciating the wilderness much, either.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Kieran loosens the top of the tin, dragging his fingers through viscous goo inside. It’s the consistency of a jellified fat, less opaque than lard, and he rubs it between his fingers experimentally. “You hunt and track better than most fellers.”

“Weren’t always the type.” Arthur demurs, pulling his eyes away from Kieran’s fingers smearing a thin layer of lotion up the bared hollow of his throat.

If the gang weren’t apart of civilization, they weren’t quite wild, either. Arthur had only recently acquired any skill with a bow; he credits Charles for getting him back on the wagon, remembering how good it had felt during leaner, younger years to catch and kill a meal. Much more satisfying than fishing, which was all brooding silence and waiting. Idleness was a sin, or at the very least, annoying for Arthur to tolerate in great quantities, especially when he could be using his time to crack skulls and pocket money clips, bring in more for the gang. He knows some hunters will scuttle themselves up a tree and hole up there until something worth shooting comes along. Arthur much prefers to stalk it down, or run it down.

“God, but this stinks, huh?” Kieran laughs, more to himself. “Better we smell like this and not, you know... something that scares horses, or attracts wolves.”

“True. Or bears.” Arthur chuckles, his grin growing a little wider as the realization of grizzlies this far north dawns on Kieran’s face with anxious horror. “But I still have my shotgun, and my rifle.” He pulls his rifle from his saddle holster, and nudges Kieran’s shoulder. He’s solid instead of willowy, for once, the lines on his forehead smoothing out as he meets Arthur’s eyes.

Off-path, the snow is too deep and the incline too steep for the horses. They leave them loosely hitched by the water’s edge, let them graze what little they can find after feeding them. Kieran mans the binoculars, and Arthur looks through with the scope. It’s a perfect white, rolling expanse, dotted with the jut of snow-heavy pine trees reaching up into the sky. The snow is deep here, and Arthur’s now wishing that he had taken up the trapper on his offer to make him a set of snowshoes from the last buck he shot. They walk for a half mile past their temporary hitching; Arthur finds tracks leading up the mountain, and then hoof prints back down. They’re fresher than he could have hoped for; Kieran, next to him, nudges him with barely contained excitement, grinning silent. Arthur shakes his head with a smile.

They circle south of the lake; Arthur is too cautious to trust the ice, even though it’s blue and thick, so it takes longer than it should. Kieran ventures a few feet ahead of the path, and Arthur strays behind, taking a moment to scan behind them, back over the lake towards where the horses were hitched. When he lowers his rifle, Kieran has already moved on, crouched absolutely still a distance out, a blemish of blue against the white snow.

Arthur takes his time to catch up to Kieran. He turns, to say something, but Kieran has gone completely stock still. Kieran’s fingers are impossibly soft against his arm, barely touching, but still he can feel him through the layers; snow crunches quietly as he shifts his weight, carefully, forward. Northwest of them, thirty yards out. Follows the guarded point of Kieran’s hand. He almost doesn’t spy her at first, but then she twists her head, and the movement of her long mane breaks the mirage of the snow, glittering in the sun. The Arabian is smaller than he would have thought. But, true to the map, true to legend, she is white; not albino, not those haunting blue eyes, with the pink, watering rims. But a pale horse, with coal eyes.

Kieran audibly exhales. Arthur’s eyes shift. Kieran gestures. Towards himself, then the horse, and then he reaches out for Arthur. It takes everything in his power not to pull away, not to flinch, but all Kieran does is touch the rope wound tight hanging off his belt.

She has not noticed them yet. Arthur keeps his breathing soft, and quiet. It’s going to be hard to approach her. The deep snow does not lend itself to ease of movement. There’s a packed layer that crunches, and a powdery second layer from recent snow on top that the horses hooves occasionally slip on; further away from the trail, the snow’s deeper and harder to navigate.

“Mr. Morgan...” Kieran’s voice makes his skin jump. Arthur glances at him. “That’s it. That’s her.”

“I know that.” He hushes. The horse lowers her head, snuffling over the snow for blades of grass she can pull from underneath. He exhales. He can’t believe she’s there— especially after that storm had rolled in, the month before. She doesn’t look overly lean, considering how scarce the food must have been the past few weeks.

“What’s our plan?”

“I...” Arthur falters, “I don’t know. We rope her down, I guess.”

Kieran falls quiet, chews on his lip. He sniffles, a little, his nose running from the cold. “Arthur?”

“What?”

Kieran opens his mouth, his breath condensing in the cold, and then snaps it shut just as fast. “Never mind. Let’s do that.”

“I’m going to approach her.” Arthur hands Kieran his rifle, unraveling the stiff rope hanging from his belt. He quickly ties it into a honda knot, testing the noose briefly to make sure it closes once he pulls. “You’ve done this before?”

“Of course.” Kieran glances at Arthur. “I’ll follow your lead.”

They approach nice and slow, crouched so as not to bring attention to themselves. When they are close enough, Arthur stops Kieran with a hand to the front of his jacket, pressing warm against his chest. “Go on,” Arthur mutters, straightening himself out. “Flank her to the left, then call for her.”

They stalk into position. Kieran raises his fingers to his mouth, whistles high-pitched and long.

The Arabian’s head shoots up, ears perking.

“There, girl. That’s a girl...” Arthur says it, slow and low, holding the coils of the rope in one hand and the loop in the other. He flips the loop over his arm. The snow crunches under his feet as he steps forward; she turns her head, fixes him with a silent, wide-eyed stare as he approaches. “C’mon. We’re nothing to fear.”

She snorts. Arthur holds eye contact. He crosses the loop over his arm, swings it around and raises it up above his head in a smooth circle that cuts through the crisp air.

“Come on...” Arthur’s voice comes out more strained than he means it; his nerves are bleeding through. The beast must know it, too, because she tosses her head and starts to back away from him. “C’mon— wait!”

Arthur throws out the lasso.

“Got ‘er—“ It’s short-lived jubilation, the mare suddenly twisting; and maybe that was the legend of her, the mystery of this horse that seems to melt into the snow around her, because Arthur swears he throws it true, but she squeals and kicks her legs, and his rope is lying stiff and empty in the snow.

She’s all fire, tossing her head and bolting every time Arthur comes close. He’s thankful Kieran is with him; she can only run so far up the mountain, before the incline is too steep and the snow makes her slide, and she’s too afraid to bolt past him, so it keeps her in the vicinity without a way to run off too far. Even so, with nowhere to go, she fights. Arthur finds his rope limp and empty for what feels like the hundredth time of the day, watching the horse retreat up the mountain, towards the trees, tossing her head back and forth. “She’s wild, alright.”

“Got a spirit an’ a half.” Kieran mutters his agreement, anxiously rubbing at his wrists. Arthur can feel himself sweating from exertion under his winter clothing, even with the cold it is. “I got an idea, Arthur.”

Irritation seeps ragged between his clenched teeth. “What, O’Driscoll?”

“Trust me on this?” Kieran’s breath hangs in the air, “An’ keep your rope ready.”

Arthur shoots him a glare. Kieran looks so hopefully sheepish. His anger’s misdirected, he knows, but still its hard to clear his throat, nod his head. He’s still not sure if he can trust Kieran any further than he can throw him, but if he knew anything, he knew horses.

Kieran approaches the mare, and Arthur settles back in the position that Kieran was in. Empty-handed, palms out, he approaches like an old acquaintance. Her black eyes focus on him, and though she snorts a few times, he keeps walking, though it’s so slow Arthur’s sure the snow will have time to melt and refreeze under his boots.

“That’s a girl.”

He soothes her with a soft lilt to his voice, inching forward.

“Here, there, girl.”

It takes so long for him to approach, constantly stopping when her muscles flex as if ready to bolt, that Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s close enough to touch her until Kieran is. He springs up and swings himself onto her back; no small feat, despite being a smaller horse, without a rope hanging around her neck to use to his advantage. Immediately, she neighs, a piercing, frightened sound that echoes through the hush of the snow covered mountains.

“Woah, girl!”

Arthur swings the rope overhead, tossing it clean through the air and catching her around the neck. But when he pulls to close the loop, she pulls, sudden, and the rope whizzes fast between his gloved hands. Kieran’s body moves in a way unlike he’s seen most others try to ride a bucking horse; it undulates, riding the current of the motions, giving in instead of staying rigid to the sharp contusions of the horse. Though it pitches from the effort of staying on, his voice otherwise stays soft and calming: “Hey there, hey there, girl—”

It’s like a spell, something strange overcoming him, watching Kieran through the condensation of his own breath through his bandana. Something tightens in his throat, and he lowers his eyes from the indecent feeling of heat blooming up around his jaw. He shifts in the big lapels of his winter coat, exhaling slow into the air.

“Girl— _woah_!”

Arthur’s attention snaps back, his minor impropriety forgotten. The horse rears, and Kieran clutches tight to her mane with one hand, his other wrapping around her strong neck to keep himself on; his thighs are clutching tight to her flank, and he digs his spurs into her side until she levels herself, though she’s still jumping from one set of hooves to the other, anxiously trying to shake him off like a flea.

“Arthur—“

The horse rears again. The rope whips, and though he grasps for it, it slips from Kieran’s hands; his eyes go wide and, momentarily, he’s suspended in air, off the horse’s back, only just touching with the back of his heels. Arthur lunges, snatching the rope mid-air and jerking the horse down, and Kieran lands down heavily on her back, barely clutching on by her mane.

She snorts, stomping her front feet on the ground, once, twice. But her back feet stay in the snow. She paws at the ground, but her body is starting to settle, the tremors and shudders easing out. Kieran laughs, unexpectedly. Arthur wants to laugh, too, but the cold air comes in too fast and seizes his lungs, makes him cough through his chuckle. He eases his grip on the rope. Kieran sits a little straighter, and runs his hand over her mane. She whinnies softly.

“That’s a good girl, huh?” He squeezes his thighs against her flank, and she tosses her head, “Nice an’ calm, yeah?”

—  

 

Kieran rides the Arabian back to where the horses await them on the path; thats about as far as she’ll let him, near close to bucking him off by the time they reach their temporary outpost. It takes the both of them with the rope around her neck to wrangle her down and keep her from bolting. She’s making the other horses irritated and nervous with her antics.

“So? What now?”

Kieran looks startled, “Well, uh...”

“You’re the horse expert, right?”

Kieran looks flushed. “Well. Right.” He hesitates. “She’s much too wild to ride back, now. Not that we’ll get her fully tamed, but she needs a little breaking in.”

“So...” Arthur gestures at the mare. “We ride her, try not to get bucked, pull the bit, use the spurs.”

“N-no, I...” Kieran shakes his head. He seems to hesitate to give an order. And though Arthur appreciates that, he crosses his arms over his chest, waits patiently for direction. “I know a better way, without scarring up her hide like that. Would you mind helping me drive in a stake, get her tied up on a long lead?”

“Sure.”

They ride the horses up the path a ways, away from the lake, in fear of her bolting and accidentally drowning herself with fear. She stays tethered to Arthur’s warhorse, who is big and moody enough to keep her from protesting much with the rope wrapped around her neck. They find an open enough space, free of trees; may have once been of human use once, because there’s a rotted section of fence, half-collapsed, but that’s all that’s left of what the space may have once been. Arthur takes one of the tent stakes and drives it through the snow into the hard ground, tying their longest length of rope to it.

Arthur tests the rope, giving it the hardest tug he can muster. It doesn’t budge. He feels confident enough in it, glancing up and over at Kieran. He’s been trying to get close again to the Arabian. He can hear him swearing sorely when she nips at him again, huffing loud and threatening from her nose. Arthur smiles, biting at his lip as he watches Kieran shake his arm sorely. He’s talking back to the horse; he’s just far enough away from Arthur that he can’t clearly hear him, but it’s something along the lines of _aww, c’mon_ and _you’re bein’ a real ass_ that makes Arthur chuckle warmly under his breath before he can stop himself.

“Alright, Kieran.” Arthur calls. He turns, smartly taking a step back and away from the Arabian as he does so, to avoid having his hat nipped right off his head. “It’s all good. What next?”

Kieran stands there for a moment. He’s too far away for Arthur to really parse his expression, but then he walks over to where the Arabian’s lasso is tied to his warhorse’s saddle horn, and loosens the knot. He walks her over at arm’s length.

“I, uh— if you don’t mind, I actually think I got it from here.”

Arthur doesn’t keep the surprise off his face, his eyebrows raising as he straightens himself from a squat position with a groan. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Arthur steps away, watches Kieran tie the rope only briefly before walking over to the horses. He’ll assume Kieran knows his knots.

Behind him, Kieran yells. Arthur spins on his heel, twists his shotgun from where its slung around his waist to his arms and pulls the forearm back to cock it all in one smooth motion; he’s imagining a wolf, an O’Driscoll, any number of poltergeists, but there’s just Kieran goddamn Duffy, yelling like a lunatic at the Arabian, arms waving.

“The _hell_ you doing!”

The Arabian has bolted to the end of the line, and it holds true against her straining. “Scaring her when she ain’t looking at me.” Kieran doesn’t turn his head, maintaining direct eye contact with the mare. “Might seem mean, but it shows her that she’s only safe ‘n calm when she’s looking at me. Plus, it tires her out.”

Arthur sighs, ragged and practically growling, running his hand slowly over his face. Before he slings the shotgun back across his body, he flicks the safety back on.

“Coulda warned me.”

“Sorry.” Kieran calls back.

Arthur approaches. It’s a sight to see when he’s expecting it, at least; watching Kieran approach the mare all nice and soft, shouting as soon as she turns around. “Huh.” Arthur leans against a piece of the fence still, throwing a booted foot up against one of the rotted slats. He lets his arms hang over the side. “Interesting.”

“Yes’m. Works a charm.” Kieran approaches the mare with his arms held out in front of him. She snorts, turns her head— and immediately, he shouts at her, shooing at her with his arms. She bolts, though only as far as the tether she’s on will allow, rearing when she reaches its end.Looping around in a half-circle, she finally comes back around towards Kieran. As soon as their eyes meet, he clicks his tongue, makes soft, shushing noises, reaches his arms out.

It’s a slow process, but Arthur can see that it’s working. Each time, she lets him closer, lets him pet her for longer until nipping when the discomfort becomes too great, or bolting away. By the end, she seeks him out. He’s beaming when she shoves her nose to his palm, immediately looking towards Arthur; he flicks his finger out towards Kieran from his hat, and he grins, rosy-cheeked and ear-to-ear.

A few more times around, and she finally allows Kieran onto her back again. Arthur helps him untie her from the tether. She’s not used to something being there, so he rides her barebacked, without a saddle. Arthur follows on his warhorse, Branwen obediently following behind.

The sun’s setting fast on the horizon. Arthur checks his map against the dying rays of the sun. They’re further north of the lake than where they had started tracking the horse; and looking at his compass and his notes from the last time they had moved here, in his journal, looking at the river bend they were closer to Colter. It would be a poor idea to try and travel below the snow line.

Still, they have some time. The light is throwing itself awfully pretty across the sky in reds and purples and oranges that makes Arthur wish he had something more than a pencil. He likes to draw in the shapes and movements of his charcoal, he truly does; but he wonders, what it would be like, to have colors. The horn of his saddle makes a poor desk for his journal; he tries to draw it by variations in the pressure he pushes to the paper, a two page landscape, but its not turning out the way he’s hoping, smudging underneath his fingertips.

Arthur closes his journal, folding it securely into his satchel before he checks his pocket watch one last time. “Kieran!”

Kieran guides her over to Arthur and the other horses. “C’mon,” He starts off in a trot, folding his map in against his satchel. “We follow this path up just a quarter mile out, and we’ll reach Colter before the sun sets.”

Even in passing, Kieran’s face noticeably drains. “Colter?” Arthur doesn’t slow the horses.

“Sure.” Arthur confirms. “Better than sleeping rough. Tent’s not that warm.”

“‘Course not, but, w-well...” Kieran tapers off as the Arabian starts to petulantly walk opposite of the path; he corrects her firmly, and she tosses her head but hesitantly follows behind.

The sun descends fast, throwing the world in blue shadows. A wind is picking up to the west, funneling cold and bitter through the mountains towards them on the path. Arthur hunches deeper in his coat, tilts the brim of his hat down to combat the merciless buffeting. He never would have thought to be excited to ever see Colter’s ramshackle buildings ever again, but the sight of the church’s dilapidated spire on the horizon makes him spur his warhorse onward.

“Let’s get the horses settled before we bed down for the night.” Arthur jumps down from his war horse, walking over to the barn doors. He pulls them open, against the snow that’s piled against the edges, and his warhorse and Branwen lead themselves all too willingly into the shelter. Kieran hesitates, but the Arabian is following the horses, ignoring the squeezing command of his calves to her side.

“Awful bold of you, to bring me back here.” Kieran says, undeniably annoyed, but the crack of his voice undermines any threat.

“And what’s that mean?” Arthur grunts back over his shoulder as he heaves the barn door closed; it takes some effort with the new night air that’s blowing in, a puff of snow coming in just as he manages to shove it shut. Kieran is already throwing his legs over the Arabian, jumping off the horse with shaky, sore thighs.

He has to lean against one of the support beams of the barn as he shakes his head. “Really?”

Arthur exhales. Kieran isn’t moving to fix the horses up, just staring at him long and hard. Arthur stops. “What?“

“I almost starved to death out here.” Kieran keeps his voice just below a yell, fighting to subdue a stutter. “It was— you almost killed me.”

“You were an O’Driscoll out here. Besides,” Arthur grouses, “It’s not as if we’d really let you starve.”

“Really?”

“Well...” He has the decency to look thoughtful for a moment. “No. We’re lucky the storm passed when it did.”

“We’re lucky...” Kieran mutters with disbelieving contempt under his breath. He turns, suddenly, to Branwen and his warhorse; he busies himself with removing their tack, pulling the bits from their mouth and unstrapping the saddle from their backs, his motions short and annoyed. Arthur watches, in momentary silence.

But he doesn’t say anything; if Kieran’s cross with him, he’ll speak up. He adjusts his hat and eases in next to Kieran, quietly helping him get the horses situated, removing the bedding supplies from the back of his warhorse. It’s only when Kieran hands him his saddle, shoves it a bit too hard against his chest, that Arthur takes the bait. Grunting, Arthur drapes it over one of the stall walls.

“Where else can we stay with the horses nearby?” Arthur asks, genuinely interested. “C’mon. I’m not going to make you sleep in the barn.”

Kieran second-guesses his own movements, stepping forward, stopping, and then taking a step back. “Y-you’re not?”

“No! That’s what you thought?” Arthur frowns, swallows hard. He shakes his head, “Christ. No, we’ll probably stay in the house we kept all the girls and Marston in. Let’s try and get a fire started. Bet you we can use the same wood we did when we came through a few months ago.”

“Oh.” Kieran glances away. “I mean. W-well. Thank you.”

“You mad at the thought I’d string you up here again?”

“No! I know— well, I actually don’t know you wouldn’t do that, but—“

“Kieran.” Kieran’s mouth closes. Arthur holds his stare, reaches out. His fingertips just barely reach the back of Kieran’s elbow, half-cradled, pressure points against his arm. Kieran leans into his touch, lets Arthur curl his hand around his arm fully. “You did good today, alright?” It’s hard for Arthur to hold his gaze much longer, because in the low light of the lantern, his hair mussed and snow-touched under his hat, he looks— like something Arthur can’t put his finger on. Too soft, cracking under the small bits of kindness Arthur is doling out to him. Like looking into a mirror. “You did real good today, alright?” He repeats, gesturing lamely at the white mare snorting pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the other horses. “Was you who got the damn horse.”

Kieran’s lips part as he breathes in, but no words come out. He just nods, chewing at his wind-cracked lips. There’s a touch of red at the points his front teeth meet his skin.

“It was.” Arthur murmurs. “I’m not so big to admit that.”

“And—“ Kieran almost hiccups the word, bright red at the height of his cheekbones, like he’s embarrassed. “And I appreciate that, Arthur.”

Arthur squeezes Kieran’s arm. He has no other words to say, though he wishes he did; he knows he’ll think of them later, when he finally finds time to flip open his journal again. And he’ll think of more much, much later, nursing a bottle of something strong. Kieran’s eyes flit downward. Maybe it’s just him. At least, Arthur suddenly feels like he doesn’t want to be here, either, and he doesn’t even know why or what for. It’s easier just to turn away from Kieran, who is rooted to the spot, for the barn door. “Alright, well, I’ll set up while you get the horses settled for the night.”

“Sure, Arthur.”

The wind’s picked up to a howl in the time they had spent in the barn; the powdery layer of snow on top whips up into a fine tornado when the wind gets just right, and Arthur pulls the collar of his jacket even closer to his face as he trudges towards the abandoned buildings. The one Dutch, Hosea and him had stayed in seemed nicer, on account of the space, but from him moving between the two houses to placate the other members, the smaller shack the women and others had slept in kept out the cold and heated up much nicer.

He struggles to close the door behind him. The room looks much like how they left it; there’s even wood still in the log rack. It hasn’t rotted through yet. Maybe someone has been here since then, or the cold has helped it last; it had been too cumbersome and heavy to carry when they left camp.

Arthur stokes the fire to a dull roar; it’s too late in the year for any freak snow storms like there had been, so he has no fear they have to save the wood for later.

The door opens while Arthur is spreading his ground tarp in front of the fire. There’s only one bed here, and he figures it should go to Kieran. He has a nicer bedroll, besides, than Kieran’s hand-me-down.

“C’mon, watch the draft, you’ll put the fire out.” Arthur nags at Kieran’s hunched shoulders, watching him struggle to latch the door shut. It takes one good thrust of his shoulder and the door bangs closed, rattling the walls. The wind whistles ominously underneath the frame.

“I know.” Kieran double-checks the lock one last time, turning from the door. He’s shivering hard enough that Arthur can see him shake underneath his layers, carefully stepping into the room. He bangs the snow off his boots in the entryway. “Awful cold out there, but the horses are blanketed for the night, ‘n I’m sure the Arabian’s used to it.”

“Can’t imagine she’s going to like it much down in Lemoyne.”

Kieran glances around the small shack. “This where you all were holed up last time?”

“Most of us.” Arthur unpacks his kit, “Dutch, Hosea and I were in the other one, but it was too big to hold the heat real well. And the boys were off in a small space over yonder. No fireplace there.”

Kieran walks to the far wall, the toe of his boot connecting with the bed frame. “There’s blood on this bed.”

“Thank Marston for that.” Arthur snorts. “It’s yours for the night, anyhow.”

“Oh—“ Kieran looks around, clearly for a second bed. “But what about you?”

“Fine on the floor. Closer to the fire, besides. I’ll keep it going.”

“Huh. Well.”

As soon as Arthur finishes with his sleeping arrangements, he lights himself a cigarette, and offers Kieran one; he takes it, fumbling clumsily, his cold fingertips against Arthur’s hands. He throws the spent match into the fire.

One of the logs collapses, shifting too far out from the hearth, spilling dangerously close to the floor. Arthur digs his palms against his thighs, easing himself up with a groan that reverberates through him. “The fire—”

“No, no. I got it.” Kieran waves him off, crouching over the wood pile. Arthur, halfway up, lets himself sink back down to the bedroll. “You, uh. You did enough today.”

“Barely did anything.” Arthur replies, then chuckles. “Guess I picked right bringing you, huh?”

Close to the fire, Kieran glances over his shoulder, the corners of his lips just barely quirked. “Guess so. Told ya I could—“ He turns, throwing more twigs and debris in that the flames swallow right up. “I could make myself useful.”

“Never seen anyone tame a horse that fast.”

“She ain’t quite tamed, yet.” Kieran rushes to clarify,“But she’s on her way.”

Arthur can appreciate the humility. The rest of the night is spent quiet, companionable silence filled with the sounds of the ever-present wind and the crackle of the fire. They eat from tins, side-by-side sitting on Arthur’s bedroll at the fireplace. It’s been a long day; Arthur’s bone-tired, and he wasn’t even the one who had ridden the horse from the lake to Colter.

Kieran retires to his bed when they finish; Arthur snuffs his lantern, and checks all of the latches on the doors before he returns to his bed. Arthur bundles himself up in his makeshift bedroll. He’ll wake up periodically throughout the night, make sure the fire doesn’t go out. Never sleeps heavy when he’s not in his own cot at camp, anyway.

That’s why he can hear, even with his eyes closed and partially lulled to sleep, Kieran tossing and turning. Hears him stand from his bed, too, padding soft as can be towards him. He has a funny thought, that Kieran is about to kill him, take the horses and run off back to the O’Driscolls, but when Arthur opens his eyes, Kieran is just standing there, looking small in all of his blankets wrapped around him like a shawl. He looks startled to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“Arthur?”

“What?”

“Can I...” He wrings his hands. It’s undeniable, with the light of the moon shining sun-bright through the cracks in the roof, the sheen to his forehead. But he’s shivering something awful, his fingers twitching and curling against his will. “I’m awful sorry, I’m freezing.”

Arthur’s cold, too.

“Stoke the fire.” Arthur’s voice comes out in a rasp. Kieran does so, shifting the logs with a long stick; it spits out a few embers, one Arthur has to slap with his open palm against the edge of the canvas. “C’mon.”

Kieran scrambles underneath the blankets, his hand running across Arthur’s where he holds up the edge of his thick quilt and other layers. They practically feel like ice. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath at the contact.

“Sorry.” Kieran warbles. It’s a bedroll made for one, so he has no space to move, really, and at first contact of their bodies he flinches away. But there’s nowhere else to go, if he wants to stay under the blankets, and so he settles hesitant pressed up against Arthur. He’s shifting, curling himself in tight, practically vibrates under the covers.

“Christ,” Arthur mutters, feels his throat tighten around the words: “C’mere.”

He reaches for Kieran’s hands; Kieran lets him take them, hold them between his own. Arthur has big hands, wide palms, thick fingers. Kieran’s hands are about the same size in length, though he has thinner fingers, big, bumpy knuckles that almost seem disproportionate. He can feel the healing cuts there, where Kieran had split his knuckles in the fight, rubbing the pads of his calloused fingers over them, the warmth back into the numbness. The emotion rushes in, before any deeper thoughts can; the plaintive feeling of how nice it is, how _nice_ it is to touch, thinking of when the last contact that wasn’t pure violence between him and another.

Arthur glances up. Kieran’s eyes are shining brighter than they have a right to, lips halfway parted, as if in shock.

Holding his hands clasped so tight between his, Arthur suddenly feels very stupid, embarrassment curling low in his gut. He nearly lets him go, but then Kieran’s fingers move underneath his own, curling in against the warmth of Arthur’s palms. He can hear him breathe, and this close, can feel it too, short, warm puffs of air that Arthur has to breathe in on account of their proximity.

Arthur doesn’t want to let go. Doesn’t know why. Makes the embarrassment thrash about, come up furious from where it always lives, burrowed deep. Unbidden, the ugly thought of crushing Kieran’s hands in his own surfaces up, to twist and mangle, to do what his hands are supposed to do.

Arthur clears his throat, and it shakes more than he would like it to. “You lose your fingers to frost bite, you’re no good to us anymore, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran nods, the sound of his head swishing soft against the pillow. Kieran pulls his hands closer to himself, slow and deliberate, so as not to break contact, pulling Arthur’s along with him. And before Arthur can unclasp his fingers from around Kieran’s, he bows his head, presses chapped lips against the crook of Arthur’s thumbs, blows warm air in between.

Arthur’s throat constricts, watching Kieran’s short eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes, blows another warm puff between their hands, feels the coarse scratch of his beard against his hands. As if breathing life into Arthur’s hands, they move, though this time he rubs his thumb against Kieran’s icy skin. The roughness of his knuckles scrape gently against Kieran’s lips, tugs in a way that’s visible; Arthur can’t look anywhere else.

Gently, Kieran disentangles their hands. There hangs words unspoken in the air, crystallizing beyond the warmth of the fireplace, the shared heat of the space between the blankets. Kieran’s eyes dart up, and he opens his mouth, then closes it, licks his lips nervously as he glances away.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

He rolls over. When their bodies connect, Kieran doesn’t recoil away this time. He must be bony under all those clothes, Arthur’s never noticed before, but he can feel the jut of his hip through the layers. He feels every point of him, just on the border of leaning against him, the edge of decency. It hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. Kieran is interested— is interested in men, but more importantly, more fantastically, in him. He doesn’t know what to make of that. So instead, he swallows the heaviness down, ignores the way it weighs in the bottom of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100+ kudos!! Thank you so much! If possible, please leave a comment, even if its just “asdfdfdjngdlk” :’) 
> 
> tumblr: @hello-imasalesman


	5. approximately one hundred million angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all of the comments last chapter!! Please note that the rating jumps in this chapter.

Arthur and Kieran stand, side-by-side in front of a section of remaining fence. It takes a moment for Kieran to find his footing, his boot initially breaking a slat in two. He stumbles a little, has to pull himself back up by the fence, huffing at himself. Deriding before Arthur has the chance to, though the thought only occurs after Kieran has beaten him to the punch, strangely.

Her head turned, the Arabian stares at them from her left.

Arthur’s the one who moves first, patting the split fencepost as he rounds it. One last knock on wood. “Nothing to it.” Arthur approaches her. She takes a step backwards. Behind him, he can hear Kieran crunching in the snow, but he gives him space. Arthur has one hand on her flank and is barely hoisting himself up when she rears and bolts. It’s a sudden thing. One moment he’s upright and mobile, and the next, he’s addled and knocked out flat on his back. Kieran’s laughter drifts like clouds into his ears.

“Maybe you’re too big for her.”

“She just don’t like me.” Arthur grouses. She’s Dutch’s horse alright, and before they had even gotten acquainted. His entire field of view is sky. The snow is cold underneath him but not soaking; it’s too cold for it to melt against him, even with his body heat. He can hear Kieran’s steps getting closer. “Not that I blame her. Shouldn’t you be catching her?”

“Oh, no.” He finally comes into view, leaning over Arthur, his hair falling long and tangled in his face. Arthur wants to reach up and push it away, inexplicably. “She’ll come back.”

Kieran stretches out his hand. Arthur takes him by the arm, helping himself up. “Heard that— heard that plenty of times before,” He grunts as he’s pulled to his feet, stumbling as he stands; Kieran’s hands hover, but don’t touch. “Don’t make it true.”

Kieran laughs, a little awkward. “I’m sure that ain’t right.” He watches the mare, and true to his word, she’s already pivoting on her hooves, trotting back to them, though she’s throwing her head around petulantly. Prideful thing. “I’m sure you’re popular with the ladies.”

The Arabian stops ten feet out. Kieran’s pointedly not looking at Arthur. Arthur doesn’t bother correcting Kieran on his assumptions; he reckons they must be jokes anyhow, that a man of his homeliness could be popular with anyone, let alone women. He doesn’t look at Arthur, even though he’s sure he can feel his stare. Instead, he starts clicking his tongue at the Arabian; Arthur can see it in her body language, the swish of her tail as she calms. He only has to take a few steps forward for her to acquiesce. Soft and calm, though he’s sure of all of his movements.

There was no softness when Arthur flicked his wrist out six months ago, sending the lasso suspended in the air out and ahead to yank Kieran violently off the back of his horse. Arthur would never brag, but he considers himself good with a rope. He doesn’t know tricks or anything, but he can take the stiffest rope and make it move like liquid through the sky, send it far and true. He’s wrangled sheep from a young age, before Dutch, even, having always been a stronger boy growing up. Kieran was no more difficult than an unruly calf, though he had a little bite.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The Arabian approaches Kieran, lets him press his palm to her snout. Her ears are wide and relaxed on her head.

Kieran’s face is red, past frost-bitten into some other level of flush. The pride, maybe, going to his head, “Look at her.” He strokes his hand over her muzzle and up to her forehead, scratching there. She snorts. “Oh, I wouldn’t put this wild streak all past her yet, but she’s a good girl, huh?”

Arthur wipes his gloves off, dusts snow from his thighs. “Don’t start getting too attached now.”

Kieran smiles. “Well, I’m just proud, is all.”

Kieran puts a foot in the stirrup, pushes off the ground with the other as he grasps the reins. Her ears flick in irritation, and though she takes a step backward in protect, making Kieran seat himself wobbly on the saddle. “Wouldn’t trade any horse in the world for Branwen. Had her for a year, now.” From his quick mental math, that’s since he started with the O’Driscolls, Arthur reckons, though he supposes he shouldn’t hold that against the horse now. Kieran pauses, “How long have you had yours?”

“Him? Not long.” Arthur admits, “And he’s a fine enough horse, but he’s still a bit stubborn for me. Not like my Boudicca.”

Kieran commands the horse forward with a quick command, legs squeezing, and she starts to walk forward. “She passed?”

Arthur doesn’t like to remember it. A sin, to gun a horse down in a fire fight. Lawmen like that were more dishonest than they were. He doesn’t like to mention her much anymore, either; it somehow seems disrespectful to Davey and Jenny, to mourn a horse equal to a human life. “Mmhmm. Back in Blackwater.”

“Sorry about that.” Kieran tries to be discrete in the way he’s watching his face, but he’s not very good at it, especially when he’s trying to pay attention to the horse at the same time.

“No need to be sorry.” Arthur says.

The snow has melted some since last night. The wind has been surprisingly light today, and in the sun he was nearly warm. Warm enough that he can pull on his fingerless rifleman gloves and hold a pencil. He braces his journal against the top of the fence post. He sketches the Arabian, first, a multitude of small figures contained on one page in multiple poses, her legs cycling through different stages in a trot. After he’s satisfied with them, as much as he ever is with his art, he skips to a completely blank spread and starts there. The snow and the trees; the Arabian, and Kieran sitting atop, holding the reins with a one-handed easiness. He pays too much attention on his face, the Roman profile of Kieran’s nose, his long hair brushing the top of his upturned collar.

In short time, they leave Colter, and Ambarino. Arthur offers to tie the Arabian to his warhorse; he’s much too big and stubborn for her to fight the way with him by her side, no matter how wild she may be. But Kieran insists on riding her and leaving Branwen to the rope lead, though, at least half of the way. Branwen is sweet and easy-going, so he follows them like a puppy dog behind, lead slack.

“Let me walk her through the river,” Kieran calls before they approach the Dakota. The Arabian eyes the flowing stream warily. It’s wider than the little crick she had to have been used to, flowing south from the lake, and makes much more noise, as well.

Kieran dismounts. Arthur leads his horse and Branwen past them both; neither fuss at the crossing. He stops them at the opposite bank, turning to watch Kieran.

“Do—“ He almost stutters, “Do you think Dutch will like her?”

“I can’t see why not.” Arthur says, his voice markedly softer than Kieran’s anxious outburst. He doesn’t understand the worry. Dutch is generally fair. He swings his legs over, dismounting his warhorse.

“Yeah, that’s true. Nearly twins with the Count.”

“Almost. She looks nicer, I think.” Arthur looks her over. “Less sickly.”

Just as stubborn, though. She’s pulling hard at the reigns, her teeth gnashing at the bit. Arthur leaves their horses on the other side, wading across the river carefully in his boots. The stones are slick under his feet, threatening to slide from right out under him and pull him into the tow.

Arthur grunts, raises a hand up, and Kieran wordlessly passes the reins over.

“We’ll hafta get her checked, and all, but from the once over I did, she’s real healthy for where she was living, all things considered.” Kieran strokes her flank, but keeps himself north of her hind.

“True. Lets properly tack up Branwen when she crosses, though.” Arthur answers. Kieran looks ready to protest, but he sighs and nods his head.

“Alright.”

“Don’t get too attached.” Arthur warns, again.

“I’m not.” Kieran says. When he meets Arthur’s eyes, he looks away, his voice growing thin, “Believe me, I’m tryin’ not to.”

For some reason, Arthur thinks he’s not talking about her at all. But there’s more pressing tasks at hand; he coaxes her over, with some soft hushed words and a bit of brute strength behind him, firm on the reins. It helps that Kieran pulls out a mealy apple from the saddlebag and entices her to the far shore.

The lower they descend down the mountain, leaving the shining glint of the snow behind them, the darker it seems to become. It’s dusk by the time they enter Valentine, the sky grey and overcast. Entering Valentine feels like a parade with the Arabian in tow; outside of the snow covered mountains, she is startlingly bright, even with the muck of the main street creeping up her legs as Kieran leads her aside his own horse. A stablehand whistles at the sight of her when he opens the barn doors for them.

“That’s her, isn’t it? You really found her?” Mr. Levi’s voice comes out in an awed hush as he reaches for her bridle. From the barn eaves Arthur spots a pair of eyes and a young, dirty face— that stablehand Seamus had told them about, maybe. He catches Kieran waving upward, but the boy disappears, soon after.

“Reckon we did.” Arthur says casually, his thumbs hooked into the loops of his belt.

Arthur glances at Kieran. He’s beaming, rosy from the nip in the air and the sudden recognition. “Reckon we did.” He turns at Arthur’s voice, his eyes crinkling in the corners, biting at his bottom lip. Kieran averts his eyes from Arthur’s when they meet. The flush creeps upward, warms his cheeks and his nose like he’s drunk on it.

Arthur turns to the stable master. “I trust she’ll be safe here? She’s a beautiful horse. You got security?”

Levi’s eyebrows rise. “That something you worry about, back from where you come from?” He shakes his head, fetching a brush hooked to the wall as he approaches the Arabian. “Yeah. We got security. But I’ve never lost a horse under my care, mark my word.”

They shake hands on that. Arthur trusts him, as much as he can trust any.

Though they could possibly follow the trails down to Rhodes, some of the roads were far from the train tracks, poorly lit and dark. An overcast night like this wouldn’t spare them any stars, not like how it had been the other night, crammed together close beside the crackling fire. Better to stable them for the night. It’s a much deserved rest after a successful trip. The Arabian, being wild, has to be checked over for ticks and other maladies as well. Arthur doesn’t purchase a saddle for her, either; sure she’ll fit in the Count’s old one, being around the same height at the withers.

Arthur’s stomach grumbles. He’s glad to be done with lukewarm tin cans of pork and beans; the thought of getting something hot and fresh makes it easier to leave the horses in the stable’s care as well. Kieran is hesitating, though. Hesitating in front of the Arabian, but stopping fully in front of Branwen, stroking his muzzle fondly.

Arthur watches Kieran, the soft motions, the way his hair has fallen partially in his face. Arthur feels compelled to walk over, push the wayward strands behind his ear. Instead, he clears his throat, asks, “You wanna sleep with them?”

Kieran jumps a little, caught off guard. “O-oh, no. Uh, Mister Morgan—” He glances over his shoulder. “I’m so used to... and I’m always around them, I forgot.” He huffs out a breath that hangs like smoke in the chill of the air, “Reckon I’ll miss them tonight.”

Arthur sniffs loudly, scratching his fingernails through the thick of his beard. “I doubt you will, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran’s face goes red, and then travels down the skin exposed from the open collar. Kieran’s throat bobs wildly as he reflexively swallows the words he wants to say, his eyes shifting. Finally, he turns, glances at Arthur, and then his feet that he shuffles against the straw and dirt of the stable, kicking up dust. “Reckon I won’t.”

—

 

They eat down the street at Keane’s Saloon for dinner, to avoid the crowds Smithfield’s draws. It’s the kind of place that only welcomes local drunks and is actively hostile to outsiders; it smells like piss and smoke, exclusively, but that’s fine, compared to coming face-to-face with some more O’Driscoll boys. They only serve oatmeal, so that’s what they order. They eat at a furious pace; they don’t drink.

They walk, a respectable distance apart, past the gunsmith and the bank. Though sometimes, the mud sucks at Kieran’s boots, and he wobbles, bumps his shoulder into Arthur’s.

“You got any rooms?”

The proprietor of the Saints Hotel glances over his newspaper, squinting with recognization. “Ah. You’re back.” He folds the paper closed, lying it atop the counter. In large print, it says ‘A HORROR SHOW’ across the front, a sketch of Keane’s Saloon riddled with bullet holes on the front. “I’m afraid we only have one room left. You’ll have to see if they have any temporary rooms over at the saloon, across the way.”

Arthur clears his throat, “Much as that’s preferable in some ways, we’re awful tired. Just rode back from the Grizzlies, you understand.” Though, Arthur’s sure this man doesn’t understand. He looks the softer type, slicked hair and clean shoes, the type that’s never set foot outside of town unless in a guarded stagecoach or on a train. “And trying to get any decent sleep over there is a fool’s errand.” He’ll try bribery, though Arthur’s not good at it, but appealing to the owner’s pride in having the better beds might make him bite.

“I am not running a flop house.” The man sniffs dismissively, but takes the bait: “But you come in here often enough, I’ll make an exception, this once.”

“Thank you.” Arthur says, firmly sliding a few bills across the counter. “We’ll need baths, too.”

The man nods. “Are you paying for two? Or do you want me to draw one and let me know when you’re done?”

“Two.” When the owner doesn’t blink, Arthur recounts the bills on the table, and slips a few more from his money clip back onto the counter. He glances over his shoulder at Kieran. “Figure we each deserve water. Long trip. Draw it twice.”

“Of course.” The proprietor nods. The man slides a single key across the desk. Kieran almost takes it, but then hesitates, glancing at Arthur. Instead, Arthur picks it up. “Room 2B.”

Arthur knows which room to enter. He’s been here often. Lying low for the night, the last stop before heading back home, back when home was Horseshoe. He’s slept an almost peaceful sleep here, if such a thing existed. Next door, someone moans constantly, but Arthur can easily drown it out in the decadence of having a real pillow and feather fluffed quilts to keep out the cold. It’s simple but homey; there’s a larger bed square in the middle and a full length mirror shoved into the corner. The decorations are outdated and sparse; Victorian, if there had been more, but mostly consists of crocheted doilies more than likely made by the owner’s wife, oval frames of tasteful still lifes on the walls.

“This is awful nice. Nicer than what they have over at Smithfield’s.” Kieran says when they enter, a little too loudly, as if trying to figure out a better excuse as to why they’re sharing one room here. One bed.

“No O’Driscolls here, either.” Arthur points out. He doesn’t want to sound defensive; that had been his plan, to avoid any O’Driscoll boys on the way back, in hopes they wouldn’t realized they had come back to town so soon.

“Well,” Kieran chuckles nervously, crossing the room restlessly, running his fingers idly across the dresser as he moves.“‘cept for me, of course, right?” Arthur levels him a look as he continues to babble, “You know, ‘cause you’re always saying—“

“You still consider yourself an O’Driscoll?” Arthur interrupts.

“Only jokin’.” Kieran softly admits, his eyes shifting.“I ain’t been an O’Driscoll since you took me in. Been a Van der Linde since I decided not to let you get shot.”

“You decided?” Arthur snorts.

“Suppose I don’t know what else to call it.” He’s fidgeting with the doily runner that’s across the top of the dresser. “N-not that I’m trying to say something else, mind you. That I would have decided otherwise.”

“You coulda just let me get shot.” Arthur crosses the room. Not a beeline towards Kieran, but a decisive, if leisurely, movement. Kieran’s eyes drift, but as soon as he realizes Arthur is approaching, they snap to him. “Probably should have.”

“I ain’t like that.” Kieran mumbles, though he doesn’t flinch or flee as Arthur gets closer. Even when Arthur stops in front of him, just on the edge of too-close. He places his hand on the dresser next to Kieran’s, mimicking his movements of running his fingers down the worn thread. He only briefly touches the material, but his fingers feel to big and he swears his coarse hands are going to rip right through it, so he drops it.

“I know.” Arthur admits. Watches Kieran’s hand idly smooth over where he had disrupted the runner. Almost brushes against his own hand.

“‘Sides, why would I have wanted you to get shot?”

Arthur can think of plenty of reasons, still staring at his hands. Those Kieran knows about and those he doesn’t. He wants to snarl, the way he’s flinching about, pacing like a caged tiger around the elephant in the room. Hesitating and hemming and hawing; it’s not something a man like him does, not his age, not with everything he’s been through. He shouldn’t be nervous about asking Kieran— But he’s so woefully inept at these matters; Dutch and Hosea, for all their charms, had never passed a mite of it over to Arthur. He takes in a deep breath.

“About—“ Arthur’s voice cracks as Kieran’s hand slips over his own, easy as can be. His gaze shoots up to Kieran’s face, almost panicked, “About last night—”

There’s a knock at the door, the lilting voice of a bath maid calling through. “Your first bath is ready!”

Arthur sucks in a breath, pulls back faster than he intends. Doesn’t look Kieran quite in the eye.

“You go first.”

“You sure?” Kieran says, too fast for Arthur to take it back even if he wanted to, besides, “Appreciate it, Arthur.” He’s running at the mouth again: “I mean, are you sure, though, ‘cause you rightly deserve the first bath, and—“

“Go on.” Arthur says tightly. Tries to ground himself in the here and now. “Longer we spend talking, the colder your water’s getting.”

Kieran stares at him for a beat. Arthur doesn’t move when he walks around him, for the door, has to brush against him as he leaves. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Arthur lets go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, scrubs his palms over his face and against his eye sockets until he sees stars under his eyelids.

Arthur should wait for Kieran to come back. There’s only one tub, so they’ll have to drain and draw more water for his bath. But he’s feeling too full of energy to write in his journal; and, besides, he doesn’t want to dirty the sheets. Better to leave the room. The general store is still open for another hour, so he makes sure to buy a small spool of matching thread for the lost button on his dress shirt, so as not to stress out the girls too much when they’ll be tasked with sewing it back on once he returns. And then he nurses two beers back at Keane’s, keeping the brim of his hat tilted low.

By the time he’s finished, the owner recognizes him as he walks through the door and makes him aware that his bath is almost fully drawn. Soaking in a hot, deep tub is one luxury Arthur truly loves. It’s been a while; the water’s practically turning black with grime, but it feels good all the same, his muscles relaxing.

His clothes are cleaned and wrung dry by one of the bath maids by the time he’s done, sitting nicely folded on a chair outside. He smells his shirt before he pulls it on, in the comfort and sanctity of the bath room; heavily perfumed and still a little damp, but clean.

Arthur knocks twice, to be polite, before he shoulders it open. He hadn’t thought that he would have to give Kieran any real warning.

Now that it’s properly night out, the curtains are drawn tight and there’s candles and gas lamps lit, casting the room in a pleasantly warm light. Kieran is sitting on the bed, in his white cotton shirt, finally clean. And nothing else. Just the shirt, admittedly long when not tucked into a pair of pants, but while sitting, only hits to Kieran’s thighs; which Arthur finds himself looking at, the expanse of skin there that’s never seen the sun. He’s got dark wiry hairs and old scars, pink and slightly puckered.

Kieran clears his throat.

Arthur jerks his head up. “Sorry. You naked for a reason...?” He tries to sound taunting, but it comes across much less confident than how it had sounded in his head, tapering off into a question.

Kieran smooths his hands over the edge of his shirt, across his thighs, drawing Arthur’s gaze again. “They, uh, h-haven’t finished the pants yet. Said they lost a button in the wringer an’ they’re sewing it back on.” Kieran is thin, shamefully thin, and it makes Arthur’s gut wrench something awful, seeing the ridges of his ribs underneath his threadbare shirt.“Said they’d leave it outside the door, when they’re done.”

His hair looks fresh, too, still slightly damp and shiny. His hat is sitting on the dresser, and that almost makes Kieran look more naked than his lack of bottoms. It feels less predatory to look at, though Arthur averts his eyes all the same. Because the intention is what matters, and he wants to run his fingers through it something awful, bury his hands in it to keep him steady. He clears his throat. “I have an extra pair of pants, if—“ He clears his throat again, louder this time, a reflexive spasm, “If you’d like.”

Arthur doesn’t wait for Kieran’s response, moving for his kit in the corner of the room, rounding the bed. Kieran grabs him by the arm as he passes by. It’s not a tight hold at all, but it stops him dead in his tracks.

“Mister Morgan— well. No. That ain’t right.” He swallows. “Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur’s lips part, his expression blank.

“I d-don’t mean to be, well, uh, forward—”

Arthur reaches for Kieran.

Kieran flinches.

Arthur feels his heart go soft, his hand snapping back to his side. Tries to pull away his other arm as Kieran flexes his fingers into Arthur’s arm, pleadingly. “You think I would—?”

“No, sir.” Kieran mumbles, “Not rightly. I—“ His eyes shift, “I think you’re awful much nicer than you let on, but you have to act tough, on account of being the enforcer.” Kieran exhales, audibly, shifting to look Arthur straight in the eye. “A-and, a pretty man, too, once all of the blood is finally washed off.” His voice goes a little reedy at the end, with a face so red he looks sun-struck, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Arthur can feel himself, traitorously, color, but he can’t look away either. 

Finally, Arthur looks at the floor, to clear his throat. “Did Colm teach you to lie like that?”

Kieran doesn’t look away. He can feel him, watching Arthur. “Like that. That ain’t— you’re hidin’.”

Arthur finds his own gaze in the long mirror across the room, the glass transforming his body at this distance with a subtle wave.

“You really don’t know me very well.“ Arthur clears his throat.

Kieran shakes his head, “If you don’t want this—“

Arthur leans over the bed, over Kieran, his heart leaping into his throat as he kisses him. It’s clumsy, a little too hard, almost knocking their teeth together. Kieran’s shocked for only a moment, and then suddenly his hands are groping the front of his blue shirt and tugging him down onto the bed, side-by-side.

Arthur’s hat falls off, and he has to grope blindly for it, gently toss it off the bed so it doesn’t get crushed in their haste. Kieran’s mouth is warm and inviting, and he kisses— he’s much better than Arthur, he can already tell, the way his lips move and he licks into his mouth so wanton and shameless. He grips Kieran by the front of his shirt, his collar, drags him closer until they’re crammed together, their bodies slotted against each other. Kieran moves his thigh in between Arthur’s legs, and Arthur allows him in, chokes down a noise as he pushes against his groin.

A man could get drunk off this; he’s horrifically dizzy, vertigo rising from his belly up. When he opens his eyes, Kieran’s in front of him, panting and red-faced, spit-slicked lips and soft eyes. Arthur’s hand trails from where it’s rooted in his hair to brush against his face, the line of his beard across his cheek. Brushes against his bottom lip, and Kieran presses his lips to the pad of Arthur’s thumb and he wonders if this is some sort of strange dream. Though the last strange dream he had was Kieran’s lips pressed to his hands, and he awoke from that with his arms draped around the other man’s waist and his nose pressed to the back of his skull. Pretended he was asleep until Kieran woke up and extracted himself from Arthur’s grasp.

Kieran kisses his thumb once more, takes Arthur’s wrist and pulls his hand away to kiss him again. Still holding his wrist, running his thumb in slow circles over the skin there, the pulse point that’s thrumming hard and fast.

“Uh.” Arthur breaks from the kiss, breathless, mumbling against Kieran’s incessant lips. “You’re experienced?”

That causes him to taper off. He pulls away, only enough so that he’s not talking directly into Arthur’s mouth. “Yes’m. I—“ His gaze shifts again, then back, relentlessly searching. “When I was, ah, riding with Colm and the rest of ‘em. Not that— not Colm—”

“Get it. Don’t need to know, either way.” He clears his throat. “Well... in these matters, you may have to take the lead and guide me, if you are so willing.”

There’s something in Kieran’s eyes there, the way they go hooded like that. Makes Arthur swallow reflexively. “It’s, well— similar to a lady, in a lot of ways.”

“I’ve only been with three.” Arthur says.

“Three? Three women?”

“Three women, nothin’ else.”

“Arthur Morgan,” Kieran whispers it, awed, like it’s a secret. “I’ve slept with more women than you.”

“So?”

“I don’t even like ‘em.” Kieran boggles. “Not like that, not really.”

“Alright,” Arthur grunts, shouldering himself up onto his elbows in an effort to stand.

“No, no! I don’t mean it like that. It’s just—“ Kieran grabs for Arthur’s arm. “On account of how handsome you are, and how chivalrous. I just—!” His voice pitches and cracks at the end, in embarrassment. “I seen how you are with them, the girls at camp. Abigail, and them. Just didn’t expect it.” Kieran’s voice grows a little rougher, licks his lips, just the dart of his tongue. “I can help. I can— I’ll tell you what to do.”

Kieran’s hands are tender, shushing him without any noise, guiding him patient and calm. He undresses Arthur, buttons and belts, (“You’re missin’ a button here,” He mumbles, taps against his chest, and Arthur chuckles and shivers.) tossing them all aside of the bed. Peeling back layers, which get quieter and quieter as they go, until finally Kieran’s pushing Arthur’s shirt off his shoulders, whisper-soft.

Arthur feels clumsy, trying to pick at the small, worn buttons on Kieran’s shirt. His hands are shaking. Kieran presses his thigh between his legs, makes his breath catch.

“I’m gonna roll over,” Kieran mumbles against his ear, catches his earlobe between his teeth, dragging with a click. He’s rubbing his thigh now purposefully against Arthur’s cock; he can feel the downy hair of his leg, the way his pre-cum is smearing against his thigh. “An’ you’re going to grab the oil on the nightstand.”

Arthur groans. Kieran’s beard catches against his own as he nods.

Kieran lies on his belly. Arthur exhales ragged, clambering on top of him, his breath playing hot against the hairs on the back of his neck; it distracts him, momentarily, to see the way goosepimples rise there, and he has to take a pause and allow himself to bite at Kieran’s neck, let his teeth test the skin there. The noise Kieran makes in response is almost broken; Arthur hums, almost growls, his lips dragging wetly as he pulls back.

“Do that again.” Kieran gulps, shamelessly, it makes a shiver run through Arthur. So he does, pressing his lips to Kieran’s neck; he lets his teeth drag, over the knob of his spine, sucks a kiss against the side of his neck, the stubble of his face dragging against Kieran’s. Kieran presses his face to the pillow to stifle the soft sounds that are escaping, though it’s hardly necessary in the creaking and noise and voices of a full inn.

He reaches over Kieran, towards the nightstand, grabbing the oil there before he ventures lower.

Kieran shoves a pillow under his own hips; Arthur can see his hand disappear, groping for himself, lazily stroking into the pillow as he waits for him. He’s momentarily stricken dumb at the sight, paralyzed, until Kieran glances over his shoulder, his hair in his eyes, biting at his lower lip.

Arthur clears his throat, pours the oil into his hand, tries to coat his fingers properly before he tosses the bottle onto sheets. He presses one against Kieran. He shivers.

“Arthur—“ He presses the tip of his finger in, slow and slick, works it past the initial tenseness.

“Relax for me,” He mutters soft into Kieran’s shoulder.

“O-of course...” Kieran doesn’t feel any looser, any less tense. Arthur runs a hand down his spine, over the dip of his lower back to rest on his ass. There’s multiple bruises over him; from the fight at the bar, working with the horses, the roughness of their lives spelt in his skin. He groans softly while Arthur grabs at his cheek, digs his thumb into the meat of him and spreads him apart around his finger. “Arthur—“

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” Arthur is still talking in that hush-soft voice, barely above the sound of sheets rustling. Kieran’s skin is practically glowing in the low candlelight, warm and ruddy. “If you’re not ready.”

“No, I... I am.”

“Because—“ Arthur works the tip of his finger back, then pushes in, a small, rocking movement that eases his finger just a little deeper into Kieran each time. “I’m awful bigger than this one finger, I’ll admit. And,” Kieran exhales audibly into the pillow, his back arching as Arthur’s finger suddenly sinks into him; from here, he can see the way Kieran’s toes are curling, can hear the muffled moans that escape the confines of that clutched pillow. “I don’t want to hurt you, Kieran.”

“You ain’t.” Kieran swallows, groans at Arthur pushes in a second finger, pushes deep.

Arthur moves to flip Kieran over, kneeling over him; it takes him a moment, confusion written plain as day on his face once he rolls over and Arthur can see it. He’s all flushed and already his long hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“What?”

“What, nothin’.” Arthur murmurs, brushes his hair away from his eyes, “Wanted to see your face, if that ain’t too much.”

Kieran gulps down air. “ _Arthur_ -”

Arthur fumbles to grab Kieran’s calf, and he’s surprisingly— _arousingly_ — flexible, his leg pressed against Arthur’s chest, the heel of his foot hooked over his shoulder. He has to grope for the oil, and Kieran reaches up, meets his hands and presses the bottle into his palm; Arthur pours some into his hand, pumps his own shaft once, twice, tries not to give in to how good even that feels. Arthur guides his cock in, hisses as he presses to Kieran’s hole, slick and warm. Kieran pants, reaches up to grab onto Arthur’s side, rubbing his thumb against an old scar; his gaze is arrested onto Arthur’s cock, and it nearly tips him over, watching himself enter Kieran, glancing up to see Kieran’s face shift and his eyelids flutter, the way his fingers flex and dig into his flesh.

Arthur pauses at that— the feel of him tight around his cock, the look of measured pain and bliss on Kieran’s face. Arthur hunches over his body, traces his thumb across Kieran’s pronounced collar bone, his clavicle, until his eyes flutter open.

“Arthur,” Kieran pleads.

Arthur pushes his hips in, pulls back; Kieran’s eyes flutter again, his hair spread out around his face. Arthur moves to grab Kieran by the waist, his other hand clutching his thigh as he picks up the pace. Starts to fuck into him with a snap of his hips that makes Kieran’s voice jolt with each thrust, his hand scrambling upward to grab as his fleshy sides, his chest. He’s beautiful to listen to, the sounds he’s trying to bite back, the ones that escape. Kieran’s cock is bouncing against his stomach, and he takes it, starts to jerk himself off at a brutal pace.

“Kieran—“ Arthur says his name like a prayer, in tempo with his thrusts, growled out between his teeth, “Kieran, Kieran, _Kieran_ —“

He comes first, spilling between his fingers, strings of cum streaking across his belly. Arthur could have finished on that alone, never mind the way Kieran clutches tight around him, spasms in his release; he’s apologizing as he empties into Kieran, too late to pull out, his body arrested to the spot.

He doesn’t realize he’s laying atop of Kieran until he feels his hand in his hair— the one not covered in bodily fluids, he doesn’t think. He should move, get his bulk off of Kieran. Pull his softening cock from his body. But Kieran just smoothes his hand over his head, rakes his nails against his scalp and Arthur doesn’t feel the need to move. Not yet. They have time.

—

 

They awaken simultaneously the next morning, the sunlight just starting to peek through the thin curtains, on account of being so tangled up in one another, arms slung around waists, legs intertwined. It’s hard not to be jostled like that; Arthur’s a little faster to return to the land of the living. Kieran’s feet feel like ice tucked up near his ankles. Kieran, though, occupies that liminal space in-between wakefulness and sleep, eyes fluttering. He curls in closer to Arthur, presses his face to his chest, runs his fingers through his chest hair absently.

“Morning.” Arthur’s voice is low and scratchy.

Kieran blinks blearily up at him. He recognizes him too sudden, halted breath and wide eyes, cringing bodily away from Arthur.

“O-oh—“ He croaks, winces, “Sorry, I hadn’t—.”

“What for?”

Though, Arthur could only imagine. About this sort of thing, it was probably once bitten but twice shy. Kieran relaxes in his grip, his eyes going soft, lids drooping in sleepy relief. Arthur leans in, presses his lips between Kieran’s brows, the bridge of his nose. His lips, very softly; Kieran’s groan pitches in tone, and he pushes in for another, harder kiss that swallows all the noises he makes.

Thirty minutes later, they’re finally up, bundling themselves back into their clothes, trying to finger comb out unruly bedhead. It takes longer then it should; they’re sweatier and more disheveled than one should be, at only eight in the morning, and their clothes are strewn clumsily about.

Arthur bends to scoop up Kieran’s neckerchief off the floor. Across the room, his back is to him, doing up the fiddly buttons on his dress shirt one-by-one. From behind, Arthur gently wraps the cloth around Kieran’s neck; he ties it around, a simple knot that he pulls tight until the knot touches the hollow of Kieran’s neck. He’s compelled to skim his fingers up from the tie to Kieran’s Adam’s apple, skating over the warm skin there, the unshaved hair that leads up to his beard proper.

“Y-you do that again, we’re gonna be another thirty minutes,” Kieran says, breathless.

Arthur chuckles, pulling his hands back to rub sheepishly at his own face. “Ain’t think I could if I tried,” He admits.

“But you could?” Kieran ventures, “Could try?”

Arthur lets out a disbelieving chuckle. Kieran turns. He could try, so he does.

—

 

“Who goes there?”

“It’s Arthur—“ Arthur adjusts his hat on his head, twisting on his horse to look to his right, where Kieran meets his look with a flash of a grin, “and Kieran, dumbass.”

Lenny looks mildly amused, lowering the carbine repeater in his arms, his eyebrows subtly rising at the sight of them. “Welcome back, you two!” He turns halfway, shouting down the path, “Hey, Arthur’s back!”

There’s a pleasant wind coming off of the water is blowing through the woods around Clemen’s Point, leaves rustling in the breeze. It carries his voice down the way, and others voices as they part through the trees, into the clearing.

“Mr. Morgan!”

“Look at that!”

Kieran rides in on the Arabian like Lady Godiva, shameless and beaming. Sitting at the table nearest to the scout camp fire, Hosea glances up from his book, smiles as he kicks his feet down and stands. Arthur dismounts his warhorse, leaving him and Branwen on the edge of camp as Kieran rides the Arabian into the center. He has a good command of her, but Arthur hurries to take the reins of the horse all the same.

Arthur is never one for some pomp and circumstance, but he’s not entirely some dark, brooding work horse, and he feels drunk off a job well done, seeing the others gather round. Their arrival ripples through the camp, a game of whisper down the lane; Pearson pauses his chopping, Uncle blearily cranes his neck from his shady snoozing spot to figure out the commotion, and even Grimshaw looks impressed, gathering her skirts to hurry on over, though she’s warily eyeing the horse all the same.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” Kieran promises, “we got a hold of her.”

The only one more surprised than Arthur at Kieran piping up is Grimshaw herself, who looks almost shocked at being addressed, but she glances up and smiles, crossing her arms over her chest. “Thank you, Kieran.”

Mary-Beth and Tilly look positively enamored, though they keep their distance. Charles is the first to approach.

“Wow, Arthur.” He says it simply, but the simple words hold more power, coming from someone like Charles. Almost makes him want to blush.

“She’s gorgeous, huh?” Arthur deflects.

Seeing the flap of Dutch’s tent open and the man himself peer out nearly makes him lightheaded. He doesn’t say anything until Dutch has crossed the camp halfway, but the soft look on his face, lips parted in shock as he slows to a stop in front of her, hands on his hips, makes Arthur feel like a boy again presenting pickpocketed coin purses. “Introducing,” Arthur clears his throat, holds out his hand in a small gesture towards the Arabian. “The new Count.”

“Oh, Arthur. Look at her.” Dutch breathes the words out. His eyes are soft, the corners of his lips quirking. A bubble of laughter breaks out, and he moves in, suddenly, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and pulling him close. The Arabian snorts and takes a step back, and Arthur tries to hold firm to the reins as Dutch drags him in. “Now, that’s a wild beauty if I ever saw one!” He squeezes him, gives him a shake. “You did good, son.”

“Well, credit where credit is due...” Arthur nods to Kieran, “He’s the one who got her.”

“A-and, well, I’d still be careful around her, is all. She’s still a bit wild.” Kieran warbles, especially eyeing Jack as the boy approaches, as if mesmerized. Abigail is not far off though, gently tugging the boy back by his collar before he strays too close.

“But you can train her for me, right, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran’s back straightens as he nods. “Of course, Mr. Van der Linde, sir.”

“Great! Great,” Dutch shakes Arthur again, laughing as he lets him go, “This is stupendous, boys, the both of you. Even you, O’Driscoll.” His eyes scan the crowd, suddenly alighting in that way it does, Arthur’s seen it so many times before. The dawning realization that he has an audience he can capitalize on. “And is this not another sign of rebirth, of our rebirth? Our luck is turning up, everyone! This, here, is where we will find our fortune...”

Arthur spies, from the corner of his eye, Kieran moving to dismount; automatically, he reaches a hand out to help. Kieran looks like he’s been struck, and he colors red but takes Arthur’s hand all the same as he hooks his foot into a stirrup and steps down, landing easily on the ground.

“... and I believe what better reason is there to celebrate! Tonight— Pearson, please, lets make something a little nicer than a stew, go to that town a ways down and pick up some drink, while you’re at it...”

Kieran holds Arthur’s hand for a beat too long, their fingertips lingering, though nobody seems to notice while Dutch speaks. Already, people are filtering away with Dutch’s commands. They exchange a look, brief as it is, as Arthur is pulled back into Dutch’s orbit.

“And you, Arthur,” Dutch startles him as he slings his arm around Arthur’s shoulder yet again, breaking their gaze, the small bubble that is the two of them unceremoniously popping. “Come on, share a cigar with me at my tent, won’t you?”

“Sure, Dutch.” Arthur turns his attention away from Kieran, lets himself be dragged off towards Dutch’s tent. On his heels, Hosea follows, and even Molly’s stern countenance softens at the sight of them all, Dutch insisting on cutting the end and lighting each of their celebratory cigars himself. Dutch sees a lot of the world through a lens Arthur can’t properly see through; something both rose and outlaw-tinted, wild and poetic. He doesn’t get it when he’s out of Dutch’s magnetic pulls, but when it’s them, especially the three of them, the old guard, everything he says makes sense. It feels good to believe. Indulgent, but good.

“You’ll have to tell everyone again later, Arthur— in more detail, of course.” Dutch says, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders after he recounts an abridged version of finding the horse. He’s already pressed a chipped glass of whiskey into his hands, even though Arthur had tried to decline.

“Don’t put too much pressure on our boy,” Hosea teases, “Performing in front of a crowd isn’t his strongest suit.”

“I can perform just fine when I don’t have to do it with an actor such as yourself.” Arthur counters good-naturedly. Hosea laughs. Molly excuses herself, the tent filling too much with the heavy stench of tobacco and their loudness. Dutch barely glances at her when she exits.

“Now, this isn’t like the fish, correct?” Dutch gestures with his cigar, grinning at Hosea, “Will I run into a fine stable hand near Rhodes, asking how my new horse is doing, and I come to find out you’ve just spent three days enjoying moonshine with the locals?”

Their laughter is contagious. Dutch moves to tie open the flaps at the south end his tent, facing the water, fiddling with his gramophone in the corner. Arthur finds himself looking over his shoulder though, the end that’s still drawn closed, through the gap; to where the Arabian had been, and then the pasture. Searching for Kieran.

“You alright?” Hosea notices, of course, resting a hand against Arthur’s shoulder, fingertips bunching against his rolled shirtsleeve.

“Oh, sure. Sorry.” Arthur throws him a disarming smile. “Distracted, is all. Was a long trip.”

Hosea smiles knowingly. “Oh, I understand.” He casts a long look at Dutch, who is flipping through his slim record collection. He used to have more, but all of that was left in Blackwater. “Why don’t you go rest up before tonight? I’ll keep him busy until then.”

Arthur claps Hosea on the shoulder, setting his half-empty glass by Hosea’s hand. He stubs out his cigar before he leaves, placing it in the pocket of his vest. Behind him, as the canvas closes, Arthur can hear their laughter, and the sound of the needle catching on the grooves of the record.

Maybe he really does look tired, because not a soul bothers him on his walk to his tent. Arthur sits heavily on his cot. He takes a moment for himself. Just to breathe in, let his body relax, a moment of solitude and reprieve. He pulls off his bandolier and his gun belt, places them both carefully in his trunk, and then shucks off his shirt, setting it aside to put on a new one.

He hears footsteps approaching, and he’s not surprised, especially when he looks up and sees it’s Kieran, too, leaning against the barrel turned wash station just on the edge of his tent.

“C’mon,” Arthur waves him in, sitting down as he shrugs the new dress shirt back on, buttoned and all, “Don’t have to stand outside like that.”

“Only polite.” Kieran mumbles, drags his feet. He approaches, but still stops a respectable distance away, though it feels like he’s hovering. Arthur starts to pull off his boots. He’s hoping to get in a proper nap before the party tonight. Knowing Dutch, he’ll be keeping him up all night, wanting to know every detail of how they found her, so he can craft his own stories on her origins when people inevitably ask. “Well, I, uh—“ Kieran hesitates. “Thank you, for taking me. On this trip an’ all.”

“Not a problem.” Arthur says, glancing across camp. While a good few were still marveling over the Arabian, tethered in a spot of prominence, plenty more gang members had already gone back to their usual activities, though now Grimshaw was shouting at the girls to get everything ready for a party tonight. When Arthur looks back at Kieran, he’s looking straight at him. He rests his elbows against his knees. “What?”

“And well, I, u-uh. Won’t say nothing about what happened.”

Arthur scratches at his cheek, his blunt nails carding through the hair of his beard. “I appreciate that. Not that...” He’s careful, his tongue chasing the words around his mouth before he speaks, rolling them over like a fine whisky. “Not that I didn’t... like it.”

Arthur turns his head, to stare off over camp. “Not that I don’t like you. You’re smarter than you let on, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran’s laugh bubbles up, bright and uneven.

Arthur continues, “You’re a— a fine sort. Real fine.”

“W-would you look at me, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur turns his face. Kieran’s face is soft; Arthur’s chest constricts, and he coughs the tenseness away, leaning over himself. Looks away, then remembers Kieran’s request, and has to make himself look back.

“I get it. I, uh. Want to be liked ‘n respected on my own terms, not just ‘cause. Well,” He gestures at Arthur, “She’s— nice enough, but I ain’t the Molly type, if you understand what I mean.”

The very notion makes Arthur laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. Kieran’s a bigger man than him. “Never could imagine.”

“This is awkward, ain’t it?”

“A bit.” Arthur admits.

Kieran approaches Arthur’s cot. He’s standing too close to be proper, really, but not so close that anyone would notice or call him out on it. Certainly not Arthur, whose knees just barely brush against Kieran where he stands. Arthur leans over, reaches out. He takes Kieran’s hand by the fingertips, twines his own up in his and holds his hand in front of him.

It’s brief. They can’t— not long. Kieran is the one to let go first, though he’s smiling ear to ear, in the kind of nervous way when one can’t quash their giddiness down. He has to fake a coughing fit, painfully fake, his fist raised to his lips to hide his smile, before his face is something more acceptable, an idle disinterest.

“Oughta go back to the horses.” He murmurs, more to himself. It takes him a moment, thumbs hooked into his suspenders, before Kieran turns.

Arthur reaches, snatches his arm to twist him around and stop him in his tracks one more time. Rubs his thumb against the soft patch of skin where his elbow creases, just below his rolled sleeves.

“Join us, later on.”

“Maybe.” Kieran’s breathless. “I’ll, uh. I-I’ll think about it, Arthur.”

Arthur smiles. “I ‘preciate it, Kieran.”

Kieran pulls away, and Arthur lets him go. He tilts his hat, gestures sweet at Arthur before he turns towards the camp, and the field at Clemen’s Point. Arthur watches him leave, weaving between the people and tents for the pasture.

Arthur sighs, his shoulders sagging. He slides his satchel around and off, pulling out his journal before he sets it aside. He swings his legs up onto his cot, reclines back with an achy groan as he does so. He licks his thumb before turning the pages.

_Found a replacement for the Count. Beautiful thing. She’s wild, but beautiful. Dutch loves her. Kieran is_

Arthur taps his pencil against the page. Chuckles to himself as he sets the pencil to paper once more.

_Kieran is one of us now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed reading! This was incredibly fun to write, made better by how engaged everyone’s been. I’m considering writing the party out as an epilogue, or maybe its own little standalone. (And, past that, hope to write another longform Kieran/Arthur, but we’ll see!) If you enjoyed this story at all, please consider leaving a kudo, comment, or ko-fi, and check out some of my other fics too. :)
> 
> My twitter: @cheapcheapfaker  
> Did you know the word for coffee in Hindi is kofi? @cheapcheapfaker  
> [My Tumblr](Http://hello-imasalesman.tumblr.com)


	6. epilogue: one last offered cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while, but. :) the party. Consider this an extra filler chapter. I would have made it completely separate but I don’t think it stands on its own, really.

Arthur blearily opens his eyes to the familiar sight of the inside of his father’s hat. It’s nearly pitch black, except for a thin spot at the top, where a thin haze of light shines through, enough to see the worn texture of the hat. It was shot through during a robbery and patched back in Blackwater. He lets himself wake up slowly, the threadbare sheet of his cot underneath his body, his hands folded calm over his chest. Couldn’t have napped for more than two hours, tops.

It doesn’t last as long as he’d like. There’s a dull commotion coming from the far end of camp. Arthur lazily knocks his hat from his face. Nothing urgent sounding, and though he can’t understand the specific words, it sounds like Marston and Williamson’s voices, which is enough of a concern in itself. He swings his feet over the cot and he has his boots and hat on quick enough.

He can hear them before he can see them: “We got a pig!” Bill bellows. Bill especially has never been one to shy away from credit. He shouts it again as they clear the pasture, approaching the camp. Between the two they have a sizable hog strung up across a pole by the trotters; there’s a gunshot wound to its temple, a line of blood that’s dribbled downward and clotted at the entry point.

Arthur feels his blood pressure rising as he strides over to them. It’s not a ranch hand’s doing. Arthur’s not one, neither, but he knows the work of an amateur compared to a farmer, and John Marston’s the furthest thing from a rancher he’s ever seen. It’s tied too sloppily and the fact that it was shot at all instead of slaughtered with a knife tells him most of what he needs to know; as he gets closer, the dirtiness of the hog and the mud on their own clothes is undeniable.

“Heya, Morgan.” Bill crows, stopping in his tracks as Arthur stands in front of them; John takes a half-step forward, and is jerked back by Bill’s stillness, the tied up hog wobbling on the stake. Bill shoots him a glare before adjusting his grip. “See what we got? Providing for the party tonight.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, looking from both him to John.

“Yeah?” Arthur asks, “Where’d you get it?”

“We went—“ Bill’s cut off by John throwing an elbow to his ribs. He fumbles, momentarily, with the weight of the hog as he flinches, and then John’s stumbling to compensate for the dip of the pole; for a heart-thudding moment, the pig slips an inch down towards Bill, but then John raises it up, his face stricken with barely avoided panic.

“Went up!” John says it a little too loud, “Went up, uh, north, to the farm over yonder,” John points his thumb over his shoulder in a vague gesture as Bill sorely rubs at his side, glaring into Marston’s skull, “Bought one off him.”

“Oh, sure.” Arthur says, “What’s his name?”

“Whose?” Bill asks.

“The farmer.” Arthur’s voice gets louder as he grows sterner, “What’s the farmer’s name?”

“I don’t know.” John gripes, “We just bought the pig—“

“What’s the farm called?”

“Jesus, Morgan,” Bill snaps, “Can’t you ever relax?”

“Knowing you two idiots, you stole it.” Arthur’s voice hushes at the end, not wanting others to overhear, “And if Dutch finds out, I hope he lashes you for it. We’re supposed to be keeping things low for now.” He grunts, “Didn’t ride all the way out into the freezing cold just for you two to make us uproot everything ‘cause you were too lazy to hunt a boar.”

“If we’d had gotten a boar—“ John always rises to the bait, always has to respond when it’s Arthur reprimanding him. He struggles to contain his anger, wrestling his voice back down, lower still to make sure the subject is out of earshot: “Well, you know how bad Pearson is at skinning them.” John glances over his shoulder before continuing, “Almost choke on the bristles.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It would’ve been fine, he’s going to cook this over a fire for a while. Burn all the hair off.” Arthur says, though he’s a little unnerved at the idea now that John’s mentioned it. Pearson makes stews, a constant pottage forever boiling in the background, because they stretch and it’s harder for him to completely ruin, unless he lets the bottom burn. Sometimes he misses when Grimshaw used to cook, before she managed the girls; at least, she used spices when they had the means to acquire them.

Arthur rubs at his jaw, his hand covering his mouth momentarily, “It will be fine.” He mutters.

John waves a hand at Arthur, and him and Bill mutter to each other as they pass for the chuckwagon table. All Arthur can do is shout at them, but what’s done is done. He may make mention of it to Hosea, though like Dutch, he’s too soft in regards to Marston, as much as he likes to think himself completely impartial.

Arthur can still hear Hosea and Dutch both in the drawn tent as he passes. He’s not exactly avoiding Dutch, but he doesn’t want to be roped into their conversations and drinks this early again. For some reason he can’t explain, he’s not in the mood for reminiscing. Arthur gives the tent a wide berth for the rest of the day; he occupies himself with basic chores, hauling buckets of water and bales of hay.

The sky is orange and red by the time Arthur finishes his work for the day. He’s sweaty and parched, but he’s mindful enough to take a stop at his wagon to dry himself off best as he can with a rag before he makes his way towards the chuckwagon. He had seen Bill with Lenny and Sean hauling fresh crates into camp earlier, and a beer sounds good right about now.

Not to mention he’s been smelling the pig roasting for a few good hours, the crackling skin infusing the smoke in the air, and he wants to get a glimpse of it himself. He’s seen both Pearson and Grimshaw chase Uncle off at multiple times, when the old man threatened to cut off a piece before it was fully ready. Pearson’s barely a cook, but as he approaches the scent is actually threatening to get Arthur’s hopes up, let alone the sight of it glistening over the fire on the spit. There’s a tin underneath, just shy of the flames, to catch the drippings.

Arthur stops, hooking his thumbs into his belt. Beside the hog is little Jack, straining to turn it. Not far off, Abigail stands at the wash station, dunking tin cups and plates into the water to clean with a wash rag. As soon as Jack spies Arthur, his eyes light up.

“I’m cooking, Uncle Arthur!” He shouts.

Arthur rounds the spit, standing behind Jack. “Sure are! You helping Mr. Pearson out?”

“Uh-huh!” He grunts as he strains to turn the crank. Arthur leans over him, reaching for the handle.

“Hey, I can do it!”

“Alright, alright.” Arthur pulls back and holds up his hands in defeat, chuckling at the way Jack scowls up at him, a pinched pout that only lasts a moment before he’s too distracted with his very grown-up responsibility to be cross. “Stubborn, ain’t you?” He ruffles Jack’s hair, ignoring the boy’s huff in response, swiping his hand up to clumsily fix his hair.

“Just like his daddy.” Abigail chimes in, drying off her hands with the edge of her dress as she approaches them, settling in easy next to Arthur.

Arthur snorts. “Don’t say that, Abigail, don’t you suffer enough?”

That earns him a good-natured laugh, her eyes wrinkling attractively in the corners as she crosses her arms over her chest. Though Abigail is softer on Marston than he deserves, she can appreciate a joke at his expense, coming from Arthur; they both share the same need and want to drive some sense into that wolf-addled brain of his.

She doesn’t take her eyes off of Jack. He’s still struggling with the crank, his hands slipping on the handle. “He’s a good man, sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” Arthur agrees.

When Abigail tells Jack to step aside so she can rotate the pig, he gives her that same pouty frown he had lobbed Arthur’s way, but he’s too smart to talk back to his mother; besides, almost as soon as she’s taken over, his attention is pulled away by a nearby stick, entranced with the way the sparks flutter out as he prods the fire. He’s young, still. He’s going to turn out better than all of them.

“He did get this pig.” Arthur adds, off-handed, “Him and Bill.”

Abigail shakes her head. “How? By stealing it?”

“How else?” Arthur shrugs, though he tries not to sound like he’s defending John, after he reprimanded him for it himself.

“Well,” Abigail sighs, “I’m glad he’s better, at least.”

“Sure.” Arthur grunts. “You need help with that?” Arthur asks, nodding towards the pig.

Her eyes narrow just enough for Arthur to notice. He hadn’t meant it as a slight towards her cooking abilities, though after a beat she seems to understand no harm was meant, her face relaxing. “What, this?” Abigail gestures to the roast. “No, Pearson just wanted it turned occasionally.”

Arthur nods, moves towards the beer crates piled near the wash table. Arthur pulls out a beer.

“I’ll take one, too.”

Arthur’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Ms. Abigail Roberts.

“Oh, you.” She laughs, covering a snort with the flat of her hand, “Don’t you get started.”

“Oh,” Arthur chuckles as he shakes his head in mock disbelief. He remembers Abigail before she was a mother; not as wild as Karen ever could be, but she had moments. They were all a little younger, a little rowdier. Still, he doesn’t underestimate her, even though she hasn’t drunk much at all since Jack was born. She’s too watchful for that. “I ain’t!”

Arthur picks up a second one, wedging the caps against the edge of the table and slamming them off with his fist. He carries them over to Abigail, handing her a bottle with a tilt of his hat.

“‘Sides,” She smiles, tilting her bottle towards Arthur. “This will be my only one.”

“Have two.” Arthur smiles back, clinking the necks of their bottles against each other. “I won’t tell.”

Abigail smiles and scoffs as she takes a sip of her beer, shaking her head. “Momma!” Jack interrupts; he’s at Abigail’s skirts, tugging hurriedly at them. She gently waves his hands off the fabric, a half-hearted attempt at correcting him. “Can I go play with Caine?”

“The dog?” Abigail crosses an arm over her chest. “Sure, but don’t you hug him like I caught you last time. You’ll get fleas and lice and who knows what else and I’ll have to shave you bald!” Her voice rises as Jack speeds off, nearly a shout as he disappears behind a tent in a fit of squeals and giggles met by Caine’s loud yips.

Abigail sighs. Arthur hides his chuckle in the mouth of his beer bottle.

  

—

Branwen, Arthur’s warhorse, and the Arabian— the new Count— are still clumped together, tails lazily flicking. Kieran rubs Branwen’s muzzle, and he noses at his palm, and then steps forward to nose at his chest; usually, he wears his jacket, but it’s too hot down here, and there’s no breast pocket full of peppermints for Branwen to beg from him. Instead, Kieran smooths his hand down his face twice, until he snorts and turns his head. Kieran rubs his neck, giving him a good scratch and a pat.

“I’ll be back.” He promises.

Though their trip wasn’t long, Kieran found his work cut out for him upon his return, not even counting the fact that the Arabian was a new mouth to feed and fit for a bridle. He nearly has the herd back up to his standard by the time the sun has set and the lanterns are lit; just as well, as he’s not expecting to actually join the party, as kind as Arthur was to ask. He’s planning on spending this party like he had the last, when Sean came back to camp: avoiding the meaner drunks of the Van der Linde Gang, fitfully sleeping against the chicken coop, and being awoken in the early hours of the morning by Swanson nearly pissing on him in a drunken stupor.

He does want some food, though, before that hog is completely picked apart by the rest of the gang and he’s only left with the bones. He’s relieved to find there’s still meat left on Pearson’s carving table, and wolfs it down standing in the shadow of the wagon.

There’s a burst of life and laughter from the main campfire. Kieran’s cranes his neck momentarily to track the friendly commotion, but he takes the back way towards the chuckwagon, away from the lights and past the chicken coop. Sure, he’s probably seen a little higher in the gang’s eyes, Dutch’s especially, hopefully. But he’s not quite comfortable enough to start drinking and carousing. Kieran settles in the roots of the oak tree, facing away from camp, pulling his tin cigarette holder from his shirt pocket. He’ll have to be up early tomorrow for the horses, besides.

“Kieran!” Mary-Beth’s voice floats in from the water like the sound of wind chimes, bright faced and smiling. She’s walking towards him and the back of the chuckwagon with Karen at her side, who’s holding the mess of her skirts with one hand and a brown bottle in the other.

“Ms. Gaskill.” Kieran tilts his hat. “Ms. Jones.”

Mary-Beth’s a pretty girl; naturally, too, but she takes the time to do her hair each morning, tries to keep out of the sun. Though by this time of the night, those curls of hers have wilted in the heat and the humidity, and she’s flushed to the tip of her nose with alcohol.

“Are you joining us?” Karen asks. She’s been nicer to Kieran, as of late, but she can have a similar mean streak that a lot of the men do, if she’s been nursing a bottle all day. Otherwise, she’s fine.

“Oh, uh...” Kieran hesitates. He’s got a small tin of tobacco balanced in his lap, barely filled; he’s not too proud that he doesn’t occasionally pick up people’s butts to unroll. Smokes much harsher, but it’s better than nothing at all.

Karen sidles up to Kieran. “Fancy making us one?” He catches the smell of alcohol on her breath, but Karen’s smiling. Everyone’s in a good mood. She’s not the worst of the girls— that title, though understandably earned, goes to Mrs. Adler, by far. But she’s picked and taunted at him all the same, though she hasn’t done anything untoward since he was strung up at Horseshoe on the tree.

Kieran’s gaze darts downwards. “Sure, I’ll— I can give you this one.”

“Oh, Karen,” Mary-Beth frets, disapproving as she peers over Karen’s shoulder to watch Kieran roll the cigarette. He rolls it tight, lifts it to his lips to lick the edge and seal the paper around the stale tobacco.

“Not bad.” Karen says. “Don’t let Uncle see you roll that good.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’ll badger you nonstop for them.” Karen huffs an unladylike snort as Kieran passes the cigarette to her. “Thank you,” She gives him half an exaggerated curtsy before dropping her skirts to take it. They kick up a puff of dust from the ground where they land, the well-worn hem trailing in the dirt.

Kieran is reaching for his matches before Karen can even put the cigarette in her mouth. “Look at that, a gentleman.” She glances at Mary-Beth, painted lips smirking as Mary-Beth’s brows pinch together in warning. “And with fingers like _those_ —“

“Karen!” Mary-Beth is red as sin, and Kieran knows he probably is, as well, though he concentrates on striking the match and lighting Karen’s cigarette before the flame crawls down the stick to his fingertips. He waves it and tosses it away into the darkness.

“Nevermind her.” Mary-Beth excuses, glancing at Kieran before glaring at Karen. She seems pleased as punch, at least, beaming back at Mary-Beth’s stare. “She’s had a few too many.”

“No worries.” Kieran mumbles.

Karen’s eyes roll. “Oh, it has nothing to do with drinking.” She turns on her heels, the bottles rattling as she bumps against the washtable with a wayward hip. The bottle in her hands clinks, empty, as she sets it down. “Though you are gonna join us, O’Driscoll. I’ve decided.”

“A-alright.” Kieran protests, weakly, “And I’m not an O’Driscoll.” He doesn’t really have room to argue, or a strong want, though Kieran’s never been much for drinking. Doesn’t agree with him right. He’s seen some of the men around camp down two bottles of whisky and go about their day like they’re not sloshing brown behind the eyes with drink. Kieran slurs and stumbles after only a few beers.

“See! That’s the spirit.” Karen thrusts the caps of each beer off on the edge of the crate, one after the other, grabbing two by the neck with one hand and the third with her free one, cigarette trailing smoke and hanging from her lips. O’Driscoll boys didn’t ride with women, and the gang before that didn’t have any girls in it, either, but he’s sure Karen could fit in with any of the men he’s ever ridden with. She can handle her drink as well as them, at least. “Ain’t polite, besides, to let ladies like us drink alone, right?”

Mary-Beth gives Karen a look and a half as she hands her a bottle, but doesn’t comment.

Karen notices it, though: “What? Drink it.”

“I am. Just this one.” Mary-Beth promises. “You know Grimshaw will still have us up early tomorrow.”

Karen leans back against the wagon, taking long drags of her cigarette that she exhales thickly into the air. The cherry of it is illuminating the red of her lips, shining bright with the inky darkness of the lake and woods behind her. “I don’t know about that.” She’s looking off, towards the commotion.

“Oh?”

“Dutch’s in a way.” She says, knowingly.

“Exactly.” Mary-Beth cranes her neck. “That means she’s going to have a great time, or a horrible one.”

In the background, Kieran drinks, and listens. He makes a mental note to ask Arthur, maybe, about Dutch and Grimshaw, if he’s feeling brave. If he trains his ears, he can hear Grimshaw’s voice a ways off, though she seems much more at ease than Kieran’s ever heard her.

“But there’s a chance.” Karen points out. Somehow, Kieran thinks she’d drink well, regardless.

“So,” Mary-Beth suddenly turns her attention towards Kieran, “Are you gonna tell us about your trip?” The gentle way Mary-Beth carries herself makes Kieran feel clumsy being next to her. He has to remind himself that she’s as much of a member as any of the others, though; she has deft fingers, and he’s sure the sweetness of her voice and face makes her easy to believe when swindling. But it’s hard to think of her in that way, sitting there and staring at him with those big eyes framed by long lashes.

Kieran reaches for his papers and tobacco tin once more, trying to keep his hands occupied to fight a threatening stutter. “Well, weren’t much. There was a legend about this horse—“

“A legend?” Mary-Beth interrupts, her fingers fluttering over her chest. 

Kieran laughs. “Yes, a legend.” He pauses, “Not like dragons or nothin’, real ones. All kinds of big animals, and this Arabian up in those mountains.”

“Was it hard to find her?”

“Well, uh, not particularly, really, come to think of it.”

“Did you see any wolves up there?” Karen asks, “Like the ones that got Marston.”

“No, no wolves.” Kieran fumbles. “Wait, we did see one on our way up. But he didn’t bother us none. Skinny thing, all by himself—”

“Aw, that ain’t interesting.” Karen moans.

Kieran’s half expecting Mary-Beth to fret at her, but she looks just as disinterested, if not disappointed, her brows furrowing together and her smile a little sad. “Don’t you got a story?”

“Well, uh,” He fumbles. Kieran’s mind blanks. How would the story he tell go? _Arthur trusted me in Valentine, then saved my ass. We rode for a day and a half straight and tracked down the prettiest damn horse I’ve ever seen. And then I got as brave as I’m stupid and kissed Arthur’s knuckles like a man possessed._ Kieran gulps, his throat working. “Arthur’s better at telling the stories, I suppose.”

“Arthur?” Karen guffaws. “Sure, alright.”

Mary-Beth shakes her head. “Don’t tease him, Karen.” But her lips are curling into a smile as Karen snorts and giggles.

Kieran finishes his beer too-quickly as the girls start to laugh, coughing as it burns down his throat. From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur walking past, ten feet out. He nearly says something, but his voice dies in his throat as he watches Mr. Van der Linde, behind him, following after, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and spinning him around. They’re too far away to hear.

Mary-Beth stands, and Karen does as well, the two of them blocking his line of sight to Arthur and Dutch. Kieran stares down at his hands in his lap.

”You think Javier will play tonight?”

”Oh,” says Karen, “I saw him with Tilly playing his guitar by the water not too long ago.”

“I like that sweet one he sings, you know. The one about love and roses.” Mary-Beth half-sighs.

”You really think it means all that?”

”Well, why wouldn’t it?”

”You really think Javier only knows romantic songs about love?” Karen shakes her head. “I think he’s just telling us that, ‘cause we can’t understand the words.”

They don’t even notice him anymore, not really. He finishes rolling his cigarette, though he stores it away instead of lighting it. Mary-Beth’s eyes do finally drift over, and widen, as if just remembering Kieran’s still there, and it’s not just them talking privately amongst themselves.

“Oh! We should head over,” Mary-Beth touches Karen’s arm. “You ready?”

Karen grabs fresh bottles— three, one for her, one she presses into Mary-Beth’s arms with a knowing smirk, and the third she tosses to Kieran, who manages to catch it without dropping it.

”Ready. C’mon, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran stands. “I’m not—“ He hesitates, but follows. “Alright.”

 

—

Arthur startles under Dutch’s hand, feeling the cool backs of his rings clearly through the material of his shirt. His fingertips dig in just slightly into the meat of his shoulder.

“Mr. Morgan!” He doesn’t so much have to twirl Arthur around, as he’s already moving to accommodate Dutch, but his fingers flex to suggest that he will help him along. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”

“Dutch...” Arthur shakes his head.

“Now, now, come on.” Dutch’s hand is gone just as quickly as it came, returning back to his sides. “You’re not going to get out of this.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

“Of course. This is for you, after all.” Dutch smiles. He inclines his body towards the campfire, and Arthur follows, automatically.

“Thought this was for your new horse.”

“Well,” Dutch says, “There’s a lot of reasons to celebrate. You didn’t make any trouble on your way there or back, did you?”

“Nah.” Arthur sighs, “Course not. We found her.”

“Good.”

Almost like an afterthought, Dutch breathes in, “Oh, right. And did the O’Driscoll give you any trouble?”

“Well, uh.” Arthur rubs at his jaw. “We got into a little brawl with two O’Driscoll boys at Smithfield’s. Nothing attention-getting or anything. Sheriff never came, at least.”

Dutch’s eyebrow’s furrow. “Not— well.I meant _our_ adopted O’Driscoll.”

“Oh,” Arthur snorts, shaking his head at the idea. _Our_ adopted O’Driscoll, though when he replays Dutch’s words, in Dutch’s voice, in his head, it makes him grimace as if he’s tasted something bitter. “No, no. Of course not.”

Arthur trails behind Dutch as he makes his way to the main campfire. Uncle passes by; he calls Dutch’s name, mock-bowing, and tries to slap Arthur on the shoulder to greet him, but Arthur steps just out of reach.

“Don’t be so tense, Arthur. It wouldn’t kill you to not be so severe.” Dutch seems to be in a mood, now, though Arthur can’t parse why.

To his left, he can hear Karen and Mary-Beth’s chatter before he spies them making their way around the tents, sitting side-by-side on the pelt-covered crates that were a little more generous to those in skirts. Arthur spies Kieran, just on the edge of the peripheral, skulking behind the two. Almost reaching out to seat himself next to them, but he turns back towards the pasture and the shadows of the trees.

“Kieran,” He doesn’t need to say it loud to catch his attention. Arthur tilts his head, inclined towards the campfire.

Kieran sucks in a short breath. “Arthur?”

“C’mon,” Arthur raises his beer bottle to his lips, “Join us.”

Kieran’s hesitation is obvious, eyes darting to the side. “Well, I, uh— I actually think I need to get back to the pasture—“

“Nonsense!” Dutch speaks over Kieran, gesturing at him with two thick, ringed fingers. “Sit down, enjoy the fire and the company. Or are you going to deny us that horse wrangling story you’ve been promising?”

Arthur’s more than sure it’s been Dutch, not Kieran, promising stories. Kieran looks mildly panicked at being addressed by him head-on, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at concealing the shocked expression as he staggers reluctantly towards the fire. Arthur pointedly shifts over on the log he’s sitting on, creating just enough space for Kieran to sit down next to him, opposite of Dutch. His shoulders are pressed warm against his own.

“Here!” Uncle shouts as he approaches the fire, arms laden with open bottles, stopping first in front of them— Arthur grabs two, presses one quick into Kieran’s hand, before Uncle can walk away.

“Awful kind of you, Uncle.” Dutch says, half-sincere.

Uncle winks as he passes a bottle to Dutch. “For my favorite fellers.”

Arthur snorts, “Sure.”

Uncle sits down with his own personal bottle of whisky next to his banjo. People start to filter in around the campfire; Javier with his guitar in hand, Tilly trailing behind, John and Charles talking low between each other off to the side. He can see Sean stumble in, falling heavily next to Karen.

Arthur watches Kieran from the corner of his eye. He’s holding his bottle in his lap, nervously picking at the raised bits of smooth glass dotting around the base of the neck with his thumbnail. 

“So,” When Dutch starts to speak, the others naturally quiet down, even though it’s directed towards Arthur. “You’re telling me you found that beautiful beast?”

Arthur tears his eyes away from Kieran, clearing his throat. “Well, you ain’t gonna find the kind of horses we’re used to this far east. Nothin’ of quality.” He feels his heartbeat hitch when his gaze shifts and sees that people’s eyes are falling towards him, their conversations slowing down. Leave it to Dutch to make them the center of attention.

”I was stumped on where to go, at first. Tall order finding a horse fit for Dutch van der Linde to ride.”

Dutch smiles and chuckles, closed-mouth, as he sips at his beer. There are a few other humored laughs from the gang. “There was talk of some real nice race horses south.” Arthur grunts, “Go any further south, though, I’d figure I’d rather just boil myself to death instead.” He turns to look to Dutch on his left, “And I didn’t want to make any trouble around here, besides.”

“You’re smart when you want to be, Arthur.” Dutch grins.

Arthur laughs humorlessly. “I try, Dutch.”

Arthur doesn’t consider himself any bit of a storyteller. He likes working with his hands; he considers himself the more mush-mouthed of any of the boys here, save maybe Bill, or Charles, but that was only because Charles didn’t like to talk at all. But everyone seems content to listen to his story. On how they traveled North, first to Emerald, then Valentine, and figured out the horse was on the map; finding her up in the snowy mountains.

“How far north you get, English?” Sean asks.

“Well, we were up in the mountain and all, so pretty far north. Close by Colter?”

“That far north!” John practically burps the words, “Not that you’d know, Sean, since you were too dumb to get out of Blackwater.”

Arthur snorts. “Like you remember what Colter looks like, Marston, we passed half your brains still frozen in the snow lookin’ for that horse.”

Storytelling in the Van der Linde gang was always back and forth, half-fiction, mostly interruptions and cajoling and teasing. The booze is easy-flowing, especially since Dutch is still sitting next to him, and he makes the younger ones fetch them a beer every time they leave their seats. It makes Arthur’s tongue a little looser, a little slippery. Dutch seems enraptured especially as Arthur voice rumbles lowly onwards: on how they tracked that horse through the snow all day, and how Kieran shushed her and hopped right on like she wasn’t a blizzard of hoof-stomping fury. He even thinks he manages the suspense on if Kieran gets bucked, or not, by the way everyone around the campfire hushes and leans in, even though he’s sure if that was the case, Kieran wouldn’t be here to hear the story. But, maybe he’s doing an alright job of it, because even Kieran is leaning on the edge of his seat, pressed warm and heavy against his side.

”An’, well, that was that.” Arthur finishes awkwardly. “Kieran knows how to break horses in a strange way, but it got her moving sooner than I thought we’d manage.”

”That how them O’Driscoll boys break horses?” Javier asks, looking up from fiddling with the pegs on the head of his guitar. He’s staring hard at Kieran, not Arthur.

Kieran’s shoulders fold in. “No. They don’t deal with horses. They don’t even really like to take care of the ones they got.”

Javier clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, exchanging glances with Bill. On Arthur’s left, Dutch shifts and turns towards him.

”Well, in any case, we’ll need some more of that horse-breaking expertise until she’s fit to ride.” He braces his hands against his knees as he rises. Arthur follows Dutch’s line of sight, leading him across camp to where Hosea and Grimshaw are talking at the buckskin table. Dutch swivels before he fully leaves the circle, turning back to the group with his arms outstretched. “Everyone, enjoy yourselves tonight! Tomorrow, we get to work. It’s a whole new world out here, full of halfwits and dullards just ripe with opportunities.”

Dutch takes his leave to a smattering chorus of _here-heres_ and raised bottles. Arthur tilts his own skyward, and finishes the rest of his drink. Javier starts to tune his guitar in earnest, plucking out a few sour chords as he tinkers with it. The campfire breaks down into groups of those sitting side-by-side, individual conversations. Kieran’s quiet next to him, still fidgeting with his beer bottle, though he keeps stealing obvious glances up and over towards Javier and Bill. Arthur can hear Dutch’s gramophone playing, some grand orchestral thing; from his seat, Arthur can spy Grimshaw and Dutch dancing in front of his tent.

“You, uh, y’know— we got into a bit of a bar fight in Valentine, back at Smithfield’s.” Kieran’s sudden voice snaps his attention back to their immediate circle. He’s ignoring Arthur and his raised eyebrows, though he’s sure he can see him from the corner of his eye.

“A fight?” Bill asks. Javier turns, suddenly interested.

“Yeah!” Kieran rushes out in one breath, “Buncha O’Driscolls came up to us when we were minding our business. We whooped them good.”

“We?” Javier repeats, snidely, and Bill chuckles under his breath, jostling Javier with a playful dig of his elbow. “Didn’t know you could fight, O’Driscoll.”

“I ain’t—“ Kieran huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I can fight.”

Arthur leans over. “Actually, he wasn’t bad.” He interrupts. Eyes swivel. Arthur finds himself smoothing his fingers over the brim of his hat, tilting it downward. “Wouldn’t have been easy if he wasn’t there.”

Arthur won’t mention that if Kieran hadn’t been there, there would never had been a fight in the first place. Colm knows what he looks like, but he’s found most of the stooges in that gang wouldn’t know him from Adam. Kieran’s eyes shift towards Arthur, his lips parted in silent surprise. “You’re scrappy, Kieran.” Arthur continues.

“Y-you—“ Kieran hadn’t meant to say anything, it seems, because he shuts his mouth right up and flushes in the low fire light. Next to them, Javier laughs.

“I don’t believe it.” Javier says.

“Me neither.” Bill adds.

“No, it’s true.” Arthur tilts his bottle towards Kieran. “Nearly caved the man’s face.”

Bill’s eyes narrow, his face alighting. “I could take him.” He zeroes in on Kieran, in that way drunks do, his body wobbling as he tries to hold his gaze steady. “I could take you.”

He eases up, kind of slow. He gestures at Kieran, who blanches.

“Up.”

Kieran stutters nonsense, stumbling to his feet, his arms flailing out, like trying to keep a large, wild animal at bay.

There’s a chorus of jeers. Bill laughs, his eyes shifting to the ones openly engaging: Sean, letting out a loud whoop, John shouting, Uncle laughing along. It’s the perfect drunken storm of idiots encouraging idiots, and Arthur feels his hackles rise along with the energy around the fire. “Alright, now.”

Bill’s face contorts in the firelight. “You can fight, Kieran?” He ignores Arthur entirely.

Bill lunges and Kieran yelps like a beaten dog, stumbling backwards and out of reach; the back of his knees hit Arthur’s, and he stands, suddenly. “Alright,” He grabs Kieran by the shoulder, close to his neck, putting pressure that makes Kieran’s body dip in response. “Enough of this. If we’re doing this, let me tell the story proper.”

“What story?”

“I was telling a story, Bill.” Arthur lies. Bill’s face twists in confusion, his fighting pose faltering. “‘Bout the fight.”

“Oh, oh yeah.” Bill huffs, looks down at his feet, as if suddenly aware he’s standing. He starts to falter, half-sitting, half-kneeling back against his seat.

“Go on, stop prattlin’ on and give us a show!” Sean shouts from his seat, between cupped hands, laughing as Karen swats him on the head.

Arthur glares over at Sean, but continues: “Now, there were two of them.” He gestures at Bill, “You were about the size of the feller we took down. Big guy. The little one—” He squeezes Kieran’s shoulder again, and he squirms. “Was about Kieran’s size.”

When Arthur’s other hand settles on his shoulder, the gang whoops and hollers as he deftly manhandles him. But he’s not looking to hurt Kieran, just put on a bit of a show, a liquor-soaked plan coming slowly to fruition in his mind. He explains it as he goes; how he grabbed the slimy little O’Driscoll, beat him up against the bar. Kieran resists just enough, his hands coming up to grapple at Arthur’s arms. A few of the men around the campfire crow and shout with laughter; Karen, too, is laughing, sagging back heavy against Sean’s side, jostling a sleeping Mary-Beth awake and almost off her seat.

“Well, I drop that one, but the second comes up with a bottle. Nearly put me out.” Arthur lets go of Kieran, who sputters and stumbles. He grabs Kieran’s arm before he falls into the fire. 

Kieran looks mildly wounded and more than a bit disheveled, but Arthur tilts his head as he speaks, hoping to convey some meaning behind it: “Bill, c’mere.”

Kieran shoots Arthur a warning look. Arthur stares back, brief.

“Come here. You’re about that feller’s size.” Arthur looks at Kieran again, pointedly, “The one Kieran took on.”

Arthur’s sure it’s Sean’s drunken cackle that gets Bill to stand again, an unsteady lurch to his feet helped by Javier and Uncle’s hands pushing him upward. He’s bristling like a bull, his eyes darting unfocused between Kieran and Arthur.

Arthur snorts. “As I was sayin’, this one O’Driscoll around Bill’s size comes up, clocks me right behind the head with a bottle.” Arthur taps briefly at his hat, “Thinking he’d managed to take me out. But Kieran’s got him.”

Kieran tries not to look confused as Bill turns towards him with a grin. He shifts a panicked look from him to Arthur. “Uh, Arthur— I don’t, u-uh, think that’s how it went—“ 

“See,” Arthur continues, his voice rising above the dull roar of the crowd, “I manage to get up, grab the man by his jacket—“ 

Bill’s not expecting any hands on him, so Arthur turns him around easy as that, hauls him by the lapels of his coat. He’s just drunk enough that his reaction times are off, and Arthur can push him into stumbling backwards.

He hopes it’s reminiscent enough of the bar fight, and it must be, because Kieran lights up with recognition and scrambles behind Bill, just in time for Arthur to give him one firm shove.

Bill stumbles over and falls like a wet sack of rotten potatoes, landing hard on his back and nearly taking out Charles with his flailing; the bawdier members of the gang laugh loud enough to cover any of the disapproval from the others, though Arthur’s wondering how drunk he’s gotten that he hadn’t noticed Grimshaw in his peripheral, drawn over by their noise and scoffing at their antics. Bill sputters from the dirt, scrambling to his hands and knees as Kieran retreats behind Arthur.

“I’m gonna kill you, Morgan!”

“Oh, hush.” Arthur’s just finished laughing himself as he holds out his arm, bracing himself. Bill takes it with a sullen grimace, and Arthur staggers trying to help his weight up. “Don’t get sour just ‘cause you can’t take a joke.”

“Shitty joking—“ Bill mutters, but his attention is being pulled towards John, still keeled over with breath-stealing belly laughter in his seat. Bill lurches forward, swiping at John, who shouts when Bill’s knuckles graze his forehead.

Arthur and Kieran exchange glances with a grin as the two of them start shouting and pushing at each other. Maybe he’ll regret it later on, but it’s been a while Javier whoops, strumming hard on his guitar, followed by the crooked-finger strumming of Uncle’s banjo in a similar cacophony. Javier’s riff deftly turns into a song, jaunty and familiar, Uncle’s strumming falling away. Bill and John’s half-hearted play fighting peters off. It’s not long before Javier starts to sing, along with the crowd gathered around the fire, their voices rising around them in shouted semi-unison. Arthur finds himself looking for his seat, but John seems to be occupying it now, his arm slung around Bill’s shoulder, so he’s still standing useless in the center of the circle—

“I-I— I need another—“ Kieran shakes his beer. That’s what catches Arthur’s attention, the glint of his bottle reflecting the light, and Arthur has to lean in to catch the second half of his mumbled sentence. Reflexively, he presses a hand to Kieran’s arm, to keep himself balanced. “You want to come with me to get another beer?” He says, a little too loud, too close to the shell of Arthur’s ear.

Arthur doesn’t respond, other than moving his way out from the center, stepping past a singing Reverend Swanson who’s half-slipping off his seat. Kieran follows at his back. The back of Pearson’s chuckwagon isn’t far from the fire, but without the roar of the fire and the gang, it feels miles away, almost quiet, their voices and the strum of the guitar fading into the background. Arthur trips on an exposed root, or a rock, or nothing— he catches himself on the edge of the table, the stacked bottles of beer rattling in their crates, glass clattering against glass.

“Beer, right?” Arthur clarifies, glancing over his shoulder momentarily. Kieran settles behind him. And he’s— close. A distance that wouldn’t be so noticeable, if his hand wasn’t also resting warm on the dip of Arthur’s hip, heat bleeding through his work shirt.

“Sure.” Kieran replies.

“You, uh,” When he looks over his shoulder again, he can see how close Kieran is. Breathe the same air and all. His mind blanks, and it takes him a moment before he moves his hands again, clutching for a bottle, working the cap off in his rough grip. He twists, and Kieran’s hand slides off his hip. “Here.”

He takes the bottle from Arthur, raises it to his lips. In the low light, his eyes are vibrant, glassy and reflective.

“You had me going, for a bit.” Kieran says, quiet.

Arthur licks his lips, opens his mouth: nearly says, _I wouldn’t hurt you, not really_ , but he closes his mouth and says nothing instead of saying something so strange. Just grunts an affirmative into his bottle as he takes another swig. He doesn’t look mad, at least, just a kind of far-off thoughtful, staring off towards the woods.

“I didn’t need the help.”

Arthur shrugs. “I know.”

“He’s gonna take it out on me later.” 

Arthur snorts. “Bill’s fine. The path he’s on tonight, probably won’t remember nothing but the bruises come morning.”

Kieran shakes his head, his hair falling around his face. Maybe he’ll regret it, come tomorrow morning, but Arthur holds out his bottle. Kieran looks at it for a moment, before tentatively clinking his bottle against Arthur’s.

“Good storyteller, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran tilts his head. “O’Driscoll?” In the low light, he almost has a dimple when the corner of his lips twitch into a smile. “Still?”

“Aw,” Arthur waves his hand through the air, “Don’t get cross.”

“I ain’t cross.” Kieran sounds sly. He takes a step forward.

“Oh, you’re drunk.”

 “Ain’t drunk, either.” Kieran replies, less convincingly, if only because he’s speaking slow and careful, mindful of enunciating. Not drunk, but tipsy enough to be self-conscious of it when its brought up. It’s the sort of slow-dawning, endearing thought that makes the corners of Arthur’s lips twitch upward, and he hides a smile behind his hand, rubbing at his mouth. Kieran’s eyes widen in panic. “Only had a few!”

“Not laughing at you.” Arthur lies, shakes his head.

Kieran’s face softens. He inches forward. “Y’sure?”

Arthur just snorts. Kieran takes another step forward. Arthur turns his head, towards the fire light. Javier’s guitar has stopped, and now it’s the sounds of Uncle’s banjo drift towards them; it’s a plucky, rambunctious tune, Uncle’s deceptively nimble fingers never faltering as voices start to rise. He can hear Javier singing, especially, and Karen’s voice, until the song hits the chorus and everyone chimes in with the lyrics, shouting in near unison.

It all sounds muddled, far away. Here, in the space between them, it’s quiet; just the sound of Kieran’s breathing, a soft, wet noise when his lips touch the mouth of the bottle. Shifting, settling a hand back on Arthur’s

Arthur turns back to Kieran. He’s breathing a little heavily, nasally now, staring at Arthur.

“Y’wanna...” Kieran reaches out, then lets his hands fall limp, awkwardly shuffling his bottle between hands so he can use his dominant one to grab at the front of his shirt, though his arm’s swing makes it low, around his navel instead of his chest. Or maybe Kieran had meant that. Either thought makes Arthur’s face feel hot.

“What?” Arthur croaks.

“I found a bottle of rum.” Kieran rushes out in one breath. “N-near the old boat in the sand, past the pasture. Facing out on the water.” Arthur knows where this is going. Feels his hands growing clammy. “Y’wanna share it?”

In the darkness of the night, the sand is cool and damp under the palms of Arthur’s hand, each grain a pinprick against his skin. The sudden change in altitude of standing to sitting is making his head flip upside down, along with his stomach, his drunkenness hitting him all at once. He crawls underneath the carcass of the boat, sitting with his back against the curved hull. Boards of wood have rotted and splintered through, patches of starlight and the waxing moon glowing through the holes, bits of sand glittering reflective.

“Scoot.” He settles warm against Kieran’s side. The sand’s not wet underneath him, but it’s cool enough that it soaks through the stiff material of his jeans. Pleasant in this kind of heat, especially with the light breeze coming off the water, wicking away his sweat as it curls around the keel of the shipwreck.

“Think I almost got pinched by a crab.” Kieran warbles as Arthur momentarily leans out from the hideaway, to grab the bottle of rum placed just outside in the sand.

“A crab?” Arthur mumbles around the cap in his mouth as he yanks it off, spits it somewhere far and distant— far enough to hit the water, evidently, by the sound of it skipping across the lake. He takes a long swig, his throat working automatic past the burn of the liquor.

Kieran crawls into his lap. Arthur spreads his legs to make room for him, holds his arms wide, so as not to spill the bottle in his hand. As tall as Kieran is, he has to hunch, though the back of his head is still scraping up against the wood. He practically blots out the sky, the light; just Kieran, leaning over Arthur. He is pliant and sweet when drunk, hooded eyes that just barely glint in the low light of the night.

Kieran kisses him, dips his tongue into his rum-slick mouth and sucks on Arthur’s tongue as if he’s trying to get drunk off that, too. But they’re both drunk, already. It’s strange. Arthur wishes— they had kissed for the first time since the biting cold of Colter when sober, instead of blearily drunk, his thoughts slipping through his conscience with the slide of alcohol; though that want slides from his head, too, as soon as Kieran’s tongue swipes through his mouth again, and again.

“Arthur?”

Arthur blinks, reaches for a kiss, though his lips touch his chin, instead, the scratching hairs of his beard. Kieran exhales hot and sweet against the bridge of his nose.

“You alright?” He asks.

Arthur nods. Kieran’s hair brushes against his face. Still smells clean, faintly like soap. Arthur turns his face in towards it, muffling his words: “M’fine.” Every time he blinks, it feels like the darkness takes longer to clear from the edges of his vision. He’s very good and truly drunk, and he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow. Arthur tries to shift, to make more room for Kieran. Through his satchel, he can feel his journal digging into his hip, half sitting on it.

Kieran hisses, the nape of his neck rubbing against the slope of the boat over their heads. Arthur mutters apologies under his breath. It feels like it takes him ages to get himself situated, Kieran nearly tossed off his lap. By the time he’s finished and slouched boneless against the boat, the air’s turned.

“You got a cigarette?” Kieran asks, his head against his shoulder.

It’s not bad. It just feels— different. More peaceful, with the quiet sounds of water as fish stir over the lake. Kieran’s not clambering on top of him to continue kissing, but he’s not giving Arthur any room, either, a heavy warmth still half straddling his hips. It somehow feels more intimate than being intimate. 

Arthur, wordlessly, pulls his tin cigarette holder from his breast pocket, flipping open the top and offering it towards Kieran. He leans in, taking it with his lips; it might be a flirtatious movement, if only Kieran’s eyebrows didn’t shoot up like so, and if he didn’t look something akin to a horse trying to pluck a carrot. Arthur snorts.

“You’re funny,” He mutters, putting away his cigarettes and pulling out his lighter. Kieran stays still as he lights it for him. “When you ain’t sulking.”

Kieran’s cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks in, letting the cigarette dangle from the corner of his lips. “What’re you even talking about? I don’t sulk.”

“Didn’t even want to join us, earlier.” Arthur doesn’t mean to say it in such a petty tone, but that’s the way it comes across, and Arthur wishes he could reach out and shove the words back into his mouth. Instead, he takes another long pull from the bottle, his eyes watering slightly as he swallows.

Kieran’s face is turned from him, staring out at the water. “Well...” He starts, slow, “Ain’t sulking. And, well, I ain’t naming names, but not everyone is as nice as you, especially three-sheets to the wind like ya’ll get when you celebrate.”

Arthur barks out a laugh. Nearby, a frog startles, plopping loudly back into the water. “I’m not nice.”

Kieran hands Arthur his cigarette. His fingers are dry and sandy. Arthur takes a drag, and then reaches for the rum.

“That’s what you think?” Kieran asks.

Arthur snorts. He offers Kieran the rum, first, then thinks better of it, because surely that’s just proving Kieran’s point, and he yanks the rum back as Kieran swipes through now-empty air. He chuckles at the resulting huff from Kieran.

“Bastard.” Kieran says, trying his best not to sound too fond.

“O’Driscoll.” Arthur mutters between a swig of rum. Kieran huffs warm against his neck as his forehead falls against his jaw. It nearly sounds like the entire camp is singing from out here, their voices rising and falling, quiet moments filled with the sound of crickets and Uncle’s banjo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, and now we’re at the end!! Thanks everyone!! Please check out my other rdr 2 fics— I still have plans for at least a story or two more with Kieran and Arthur, so feel free to subscribe or follow my tumblr (@hello-imasalesman) to keep up with that. as always, if you enjoyed my writing feel free to leave a kudos, comment :’’’)
> 
> Also, did you know the word for coffee in Hindi is kofi? @cheapcheapfaker


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